


In the Beginning

by sistersin7



Series: Evolutions [1]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Angst, Post-Canon Fix-It, Romance-from-afar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistersin7/pseuds/sistersin7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the prequel to End to Begin, gifted to Roadie who fancied the fix-it.<br/>This story picks up about two years after the show ends, when Helena returns to South Dakota by order of the Regents. They decided that, as a human artefact, Helena needs an agent to be her handler.<br/>Myka volunteers, but getting back into the habit of being around each other may not be so simple.</p><p>Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy it.</p><p>(If you read End to Begin, the beginning of Chapter One may be familiar – it’s one of Helena’s memories from the other story. It’s kind of a cheat, but it has been augmented slightly to add a little context.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roadie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadie/gifts).



I am sitting in a booth at the Univille Diner on Main Street. I am facing the door, Irene Frederic is sitting opposite me. The air is hot, dry and still. Summertime in South Dakota is not a forgiving place for an Albion refugee, who strongly prefers drizzle, fog and mist.

My heart is pounding in my chest and my head feels heavy. It could be the heat or the onset of dehydration. Or it could be because the door that dominates my field of vision will open any minute now and she will walk through it.

Or so I hope.

Irene sips her tea and I sip mine - in silence. She wears an expression that is uniquely hers, revealing nothing about her state of mind or intentions. I am rather relieved it is her opposite me and no other Warehouse representative. Irene truly values silent reflection. Not many Warehouse associates value it as much as she does. I have strong evidence to support this observation as I’ve grown to know so many of them more intimately than I ever wished to.

After the troubles with Sykes and Paracelsus, the Regents realised that I am an artefact: my knowledge, skills and mere existence too dangerous to be left loose in the world. As such, a means of containing, monitoring or governing me must be put in place. The Janus coin proved too risky a method; the use of Bronze has been put into question, as have the uses and the consequences of other mystical means of confinement.

With physical confinement as a last resort, much to my mirth, the Regents experimented with other means of securing me: first it was surveillance, then regular handling meetings - which frequencies increased - until I had been effectively chaperoned. Each new phase introduced me to another Regent’s aide, then another Regent, until arrangements became intolerable for all parties involved.

 

_“What, on earth, do you think you are doing?” I whisper harshly towards the lanky, shaking young man. I reach for the .22 calibre he barely manages to hold up but he pulls back. I hold my palm outstretched and gesture for him hand the weapon over._

_“I’m, uhm,” he stammers and shakes his head, “uhm, I was,” he stumbles backwards, narrowly finds his footing, not without reaching his right hand – the one holding the weapon – back, all too fast, to seek purchase on the wall behind him, “securing the… uhhh…” the gun hits the wall and his grip on it loosens._

_“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I leap towards him, remove the small-yet-deadly-firearm from his hand, make it safe and hand it back to him._

_He picks the weapon and magazine from my palm. “You shouldn’t,” he whispers as I place a sure hand below his trembling shoulder blade and push him back towards where he had come from._

_We turn back into a street, a hive of activity around us. I usher him into a busy café, get him a fruit smoothie and sit him at the back of the room. “Call Mrs. Pascual, if you please.”_

_He clasps his smoothie tightly, squeezes life out of the rigid plastic container with one hand, and reaches for his phone with his other. He appears less pale than he did a minute ago, but still shakes like a leaf in a violent storm. I cannot believe this is the personnel they are assigning to assure my safety. Or the world’s, for that matter. Just another adjustment, I suppose, to a reality in which I am an artefact._

_He hands the phone to me and I give him a rather pitiful smile._

_A woman answers._

_“Your young aide here nearly shot himself in the foot just now,” I start while turning my back to the recovering youngster, “quite literally.”_

_“Ms. Wells, I can assure you he is trained and licensed to use the firearm,” a cool, slightly annoyed voice crackles with a soft Italian accent._

_“He may be trained and licensed, but he is terrified out of his wits,” I hiss into the small hand-held device, “and this was a social call he was allegedly securing on my behalf. Nothing dangerous about it.”_

_“What social call would you be conducting in an alley, Ms. Wells?” the lady questions._

_I sigh. I have long grown out of the habit of excusing my whereabouts or explaining my activities to others. Upon reflection, I am quite sure I was never in this habit in the first place. “This is an urban scavenger hunt,” I disclose, “or was, rather.”_

_Mrs. Pascual is silent, yet her silence rings with her disapproval. “Perhaps, Ms. Wells, you may wish to engage is less audacious activities,” she winds up saying._

_“Perhaps it is time we discussed an arrangement that would not have me being treated like a criminal,” I retort, “or worse. A teenager.”_

_Mrs. Pascual hums on the other side._

_“I would very much hate if one of your assistants injured himself one of these days,” I glace at the young lad, slurping the dregs of his smoothie as loudly as he possibly could. A childish smile graces his cheeks, smooth and pink virgin cheeks, yet to have been touched by a razor._

_“I will discuss this with Mr. Kosan when I next speak to him,” she relents._

_“Thank you.”_

_“In the meantime, I would ask that you adopt a homely pastime, Ms. Wells. I hear knitting is fashionable.”_

 

After two and a half years of Regent supervision, which tallied a handful of messy incidents and a fistful of messier near-misses, it was clear that I had to be handled by a more capable Warehouse representative. I was told I am being handed over to an agent.

This is new territory for them and for me; neither of us are entirely clear about the meaning of being handled by an agent. I just know that there is one agent whose company would be much preferable to any other.

I look into my teacup and swirl the dregs in slow circles when the bell above the door rings. I look up and see her face for the first time in nearly three years.

I stand up to greet her, whispering her name.

She walks over, sure stepped, straight backed, agent-like.

“Helena,” she says. “Mrs. Frederic”.

“Myka,” Irene calls her by her first name. “Please sit,” she gestures to the seat opposite her – next to me.

I scoot down in the booth to sit next to the wall and Myka smiles at me as she sits down. For the second until she settles I study every detail in her profile, comparing it to the details in my memory.

 

_She gets in the utility vehicle and turns to me as Peter drives off, flashing a sad smile, waving goodbye. Her eyes, welled with tears of heartache and – quite possibly – regret, sparkle in the dim light of the streetlamps. I assume those are heartache and regret for I feel them too._

_This time, like so many others, we perfected our practice of stolen glances, unseen touches and unspoken words._

_Maybe next time it will be different. Maybe coffee, maybe save the world. We’ll see._

 

She hadn’t changed much.

“I appreciate the both of you being here,” Irene starts. “I realise this is, perhaps, slightly awkward given the history you two share, but it is because of your… history… that we believe this will be the easiest way to formulate how an arrangement such as this could work.”

Myka presses her lips in a tense smile and looks down.

“What’s your expectation?” she asks when she raises her head.

“The same as that of a Warehouse agent, Myka,” Irene answers calmly. “Protect the Warehouse and its artefacts, and by that, protect the world from their danger.”

She nods.

Irene is quiet, looking intently at Myka, then me, then Myka again.

“We always said we should meet for coffee,” I start somewhat clumsily attempting to break the silence.

She turns to meet my eyes. “Yes,” she smiles crookedly. “Coffee.”

As if possessing magical timing, the waitress comes along and pours Myka a cup.

“I’ll be honest, though,” she chuckles and waits for the waitress to return to her station, “if the purpose of us getting together was coffee, I’d’ve picked someplace that serves better stuff.”

We’ve shared many silences in our time, Myka and I, none quite as awkward as this one. Irene has long since disappeared, it’s just her and me now.

“So…” she starts without intending to finish.

“So.” I answer. “What would you like to do now?”

She frowns, considering the limited options Univille has to offer. She then tilts her head and fires a sideways glace in my direction. “Do you wanna walk on it?” she asks, nudging her head towards the door.

I nod excitedly and get up. She leaves the table and I leave a twenty Dollar bill on it. We walk out in silence. The sunlight is harsh and I wish I had some protection from it. Myka, ever ready and a proper local, has sunglasses on.

We walk the length of three blocks, nearing the end of Univille’s shopping precinct, when she speaks: “I’m really glad to see you, Helena.” She stops and turns to me. “Even though it may not feel like I am.”

I look at her and smile, adjust the strap of my shoulder bag and point in the direction of the riverside park. We head towards it.

“They chose you?” I ask tentatively

“I volunteered.” She responds, somewhat coldly, giving very little away.

“They convinced you?” I try again.

“I volunteered.”

“How did they persuade you?” I press harder, with considerable less patience.

“I volunteered,” she asserts.

“Myka, be honest with me,” I look at her, pleading, “that’s the only way this is going to work.”

“God, you are so stubborn, it’s tiring,” she grabs hold of my right arm with her left and turns me so we are squarely in front of each other. She pushes her sunglasses up and past her forehead until they rest in her curls, a dark tiara. She bends down slightly so her eyes are level with mine: they bear a greyish tint and her pupils are small in the bright light of day. Their size reveals them to be encircled by a ring of gold. “I volunteered,” she enunciates. “And honesty only works when we trust each other.”

She lets go of me and we continue walking. I contemplate her words and their meaning for a few moments: when we trust each other.

“Well, not nearly as glad as I am to see you, Agent Bering,” I say and pick up the pace, overtaking her. “And I am not stubborn.” I throw back.

 

Myka loosens a bit once we reach the river. Perhaps it is the proximity to flow of water that helps our conversation flow as well. She asks me how I had been and what I had been doing. I don’t need to tell her an awful lot. After all, we had been in contact – occasional emails and text messages. I even called her on her birthday once, attempting to take on this century’s obsession with aging. I do not believe it bode very well.

 

_I am looking over downtown Portland, Oregon, from the terrace of my newly rented apartment in Kings Heights. The city lights up in the slowest, most spectacular fireworks display I had ever seen._

_I look down at my phone and scan the message I intend to send, contemplating its content once more:_

_Happy birthday, Myka. Maybe next year we can celebrate over coffee. Love, Helena._

_I am not pleased with this message. It’s both simplistic and cryptic. It conveys too much and nothing at all at the same time. My finger hovers over the delete button._

_I aborted this mission in the past two years and I’m adamant to not abort again. Congratulating one for their surviving one more circling of the earth round the sun is a common custom these days, and – apparently – one tends to place great stock in those who remember to congratulate them._

_It is high time I got over whatever it is that’s holding me back, I convince myself, and consider pressing Send at the exact same time as downing the remainder of a glass of wine; just so in the future I may excuse it on a multi-tasking mishap._

_I down what’s left of my wine but delete the message. Before any part of me can protest, I call her._

_I take two, deep steadying breaths while the phone rings._

_“Hello?” she answers._

_A smile spreads across my face at the sound of her voice, “Hello, Myka,” I greet her in return._

_“Helena?” my call obviously takes her by surprise._

_“Happy birthday, darling,” I speak my rehearsed line, the term of endearment falling from my lips naturally._

_She is silent for a few seconds, “Thanks,” she says eventually, somewhat laconically._

_I had not calculated a monosyllabic, tonally-ambiguous response and I’m unsure as to how to continue. “Are celebrations underway?” I ask, choosing to replay the behaviour I observed in others over the years._

_“Uhm…” she stammers silently, “Yeah,” she adds in the end._

_I pause, hoping she contributes something to the conversation. She does not._

_“Perhaps next year we can celebrate over coffee,” I revert to the rehearsed lines._

_“Sure,” she says._

_I am aware of how I press the phone to my ear, how hard and uncomfortable it feels. For a device designed to enable communication, it seems to fail to achieve its objective. I suppose the silence so carefully constructed by the people using it is of no help, either._

_“Uh…” she starts, “thanks for calling, Helena.”_

_“My pleasure,” I whisper._

_“’Bye,” she says quietly._

_“’Bye,” I return, and disconnect the call._

_I remain seated on the terrace long after the sun sinks behind the hills upon which my new home is built, long after the city lights up completely and then darkens some after most offices and businesses closed for the night._

_I look at my phone occasionally, and it remains silent and still, taunting my abuse of its purpose earlier._

_I sigh and decide to turn in for a short night’s sleep, given the sun will be up in less than five hours, and I will have 364 days to forget about this call and about Myka’s birthday._

 

Our riverside conversation seems to be flowing remarkably well. I tell her about the two jobs I had had since we last caught up, I tell her about the friends I left in Portland, the last place where I had attempted to pitch my tent, by which point we had circled back and emerged at the other end of Univille’s Main Street. She is pointing us in the direction of the diner, where her car is parked.

“How about you?” I ask.

She breathes an airy, wry laugh. “I think we’ll need to save that for another time,” she says with a careful smile and reaches for the driver’s side door to open it.

I step into the space between her and the car, place my hand forcefully and flat above the handle and push the door shut. I search for her eyes behind the sunglasses.

“I’m not shutting you out,” she attempts to appease me.

I feel her fingers wrap around my hand on the door and my eyes dart to them. My heart skips a beat because her touch is gentle and warm. And lingering. I look back up at her, she has removed her sunglasses, and she is blushing, a proper, deep red hue engulfing her cheeks.

“I just need a little time to get used to this,” she pulls my hand from the door.

We stand by the car, near the driver side door, my hand in hers, looking into each other’s eyes for the first time in three years. The air between us is thick with unspoken yet heard words, unexpressed yet felt emotions, unexplored but oh-so-present needs. My lips feel dry and I want to wet them.

I want to wet _hers_.

“Do you want to drive?” she breaks the tense moment with a practicality.

For a moment I ponder what she means, exactly: is she asking me to assume the position behind the wheel and get us from Univille to the bed and breakfast – the literal offer; or is she asking me to assume control of what goes on between us – the figurative offer?

“No,” I croak and clear my throat. “No, I do not.” I say it clearly, so there is no misinterpretation of my words or their intent. “I know how much you love driving.” I mean what I say, because she does love driving, literally and figuratively. I also believe she should drive our new relationship – artefact and handler. Initially, at least.

She beams her crooked, adorable grin, her green eyes sparkling. I missed this grin. I missed these eyes. She opens the door and nudges her head towards the car.

I take my cue and walk around the vehicle. By the time I climb in and buckle up she started the car and silenced the music that started playing.

“We’ll start out at the B&B,” she says, “everybody’s dying to see you,” excitement is bubbling in her voice. “Well…” she muses.

“I wouldn’t think Peter is thrilled,” I throw my two pennies in.

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Not as much as everyone else, no,” she looks at me with patience only she has for a moment, then snaps into action and adjusts her seat and mirrors.

I reach my hand out to touch her right arm.

She stops and looks at me.

“Is this a good idea, Myka?”

“What is?”

“Going to the bed and breakfast?”

“I don’t know if it’s a _good_ idea,” she shrugs, “but that’s the plan,” she gives me a reassuring smile. She pulls out of the car park, and after merging into the late afternoon traffic of the tiny town in the middle of nowhere, she says “we’ll go house hunting tomorrow.”

 

Claudia is the first to greet us at the bed and breakfast. She is excited, excitable, chatty and, well, _Claudia_. She has grown up so much, but hasn’t. I size her up, such a remarkable young woman. I realise and acknowledge that while humanity has not changed a great deal while I was in bronze, it had changed _enough_ to allow Claudias to come into their own; and – my – what a beautiful and inspiring thing it is to behold.

The rest of the group is assembled in the drawing room, the patio doors wide open, allowing a light summer breeze in through them. Steve and Arthur greet me amicably and politely, then introduce me to Abigail, who immediately admits her hero worship. I smile graciously and bite my tongue, not responding with the myriad of utterly cocky quips I have in my arsenal.

Peter is the last one to bid his welcome. He does not look his usual self, and for very good reason. I know he and Myka were together. I know they no longer are. I recognise a hint of jealousy in his voice, a dollop of defensiveness in his body language.

There is no evidence to support his jealousy, given Myka’s response to my presence earlier. I can imagine there may be speculations as to the reasons she and I were assigned to one another, and further speculations as to where this assignment might lead us.

These are, however, speculations and nothing more. It has been a long time since Myka and I spent more than a few hours in each other’s presence, and even longer since we shared time that was not entirely designated for Warehouse business. That gap and lack of practice it has inspired in our ability to be in each other’s presence are making themselves rather salient.

Yet, jealousy is hardly fuelled by logic. I smile politely at him, and he smiles politely back. For a few seconds, we do nothing but smile at each other. But then, Peter Lattimer wraps his arms around me and takes me back into the fold with a hug that has as much cordialness as he can rally. And as he does, I admit to myself that he has good reason to be jealous.

I admit that there is something unmistakably noticeable between Myka and myself. There is _something_ that I feel, _something_ she feels as well, because she needs time to get used to _it_ – whatever _it_ is. I cannot account for my reluctance to name the _thing_ or the _it_.

He gives me a gentle squeeze before we break the hug, and I know he has good reason to be jealous. As we step back from each other, I look at him. He looks at Myka, who looks at me but quickly turns to exit the room.

I would be dishonest if I did not concede to myself, in the presence of these wonderful people, that I truly wish for my relationship with Myka Bering to grow from the ethereally palpable to the corporeally tangible. And as honesty appears to be the order of the day, I hereby concede.

The look Peter grants me now is both alarmed and defeated, as if he knows what had just acknowledged.

The group spends a few hours catching up and I am so grateful to them because they make it so, so easy for me, regaling tall tales of Warehouse woes. Throughout the whole evening Myka is at least one person away from me. We are never next to each other. I know she notices my noticing, so when the group decides to disperse to their quarters, I choose to stay behind with her, wait for her instrcutions.

We are standing an arm’s length apart.

“You okay?” she asks tentatively.

I smile at her and nod. “I am. It is wonderful to see everyone again.”

She smiles back, and the air thickens with those words and emotions and needs.

“…so I got HG’s room back from the DAV…” Claudia exclaims as she walks back into the room with her nose stuck in one of her gadgets. She looks up and acknowledge the two of us, awkwardly not-intimate, not-communicating. “Sorry,” she cringes. “Did I spoil a moment?” she asks with a whisper.

Myka’s smile widens at me, then she turns to Claudia while straightening her posture and sighing. “You didn’t, Claud. It’s fine.”

Six years’ worth of beating about some bushes and burning others spoil this moment, I think. Then I thank evolution for crickets, otherwise this silence will have truly roared.

“So…” Claudia starts again, her glance darting between Myka and me, gauging our responses to her words, “I have HG’s room ready for her,” she drawls, “unless…” she hints with the subtlety that graces a bull in a china shop.

I bite my lip as I cannot help the smirk that takes to them. Myka blushes again, slumps her shoulders and traps the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

“Will you stop, please?” she sounds irritated.

Claudia looks at me, raises her hands in surrender and pulls a rather innocent face. She then comes to my side, laces her arm in mine and takes me out of the drawing room, towards the staircase. “Let’s get you settled for the night, missy,” she squeezes my arm and squeals quietly through the widest smile.

As we walk up the stairs I hear Myka’s heavy sigh and recognise the sound of her body falling into the settee.

I missed those sounds.

 

///   ///

 

I wait for the sound of footsteps to stop upstairs and for the doors to shut before I exhale and start breathing normally. I’ve been controlling pretty much every aspect of myself since lunchtime today, because I was afraid _something_ would betray the heap of confused, messed-up emotions that sparked the minute I walked into that Diner.

Only now, after the excitement has died down, after everyone’s gone to bed, I dare to relax and breathe normally.

Only now I dare to go through what’s happened today.

The first thought that crosses my mind is ‘What, on earth, were you thinking, Myka?!’, and for a long, long time I can’t shake it off because it didn’t take seeing Helena to awaken my feelings for her. Seeing Helena just turned them up to eleven.

That’s something Pete would say.

Ugh, Pete.

I sigh and let my head fall back.

Since he and I broke up everything has been so weird. It’s weird between him and me, it’s weird for the whole team. If something were to happen with Helena, it would mess things up even more.

Okay. Hold up.

I call the rioting emotions to settle down, because it feels like I shouldn’t be thinking what I’m thinking. I’m obviously too close to having ended things with Pete.

How long has it actually been, though? Seven months since we ended it, and nearly a year since we knew it was over.

So how long is long enough get over the breakup?

And how long will be long enough before I can start something new?

Anyway, all this is all hinged on the assumption that Helena is even interested… I stop this thought before it goes any further, because I recognise my insecurities a mile off. I start collecting evidence from the afternoon, evidence that she _is_ interested: looks, smiles, touches, the number of times she called me ‘darling’. The number of times we almost kissed; when I told her she’s stubborn, when I told her I needed time; before Claud walked in.

A small, half lascivious, half self-satisfied smile tugs my lips up. She’s in.

Really, Myka Ophelia Bering, I chide myself. This _is not_ the time to jump into bed with Helena Wells. I sigh heavily – again – and roll my eyes at the crass admission of my carnal needs.

Besides, I want so much more than that with her.

So this is not the time to jump into _anything_ with Helena Wells, I correct my admission, but it doesn’t feel any better. Or any lighter. It feels just as complicated and just as badly timed as it did about an hour ago, when I started unpicking today.

Really. What _was_ I thinking?

I spend some time coming to terms with my being a world class idiot for agreeing to babysit Helena, because – right now – it feels like it was a really, _really_ stupid idea.

I just need to find a way to manage it.

I don’t know where it comes from, but ‘one day at a time’ creeps into my mind. It works for people with much bigger issues. Maybe it can work for me and my errant emotions that refuse to remain pent up.

So how would that work for me, then?

I spend the next hour letting today go and planning tomorrow: I think back through personal safety protocols from the academy, I read back through the Warehouse manual to see if there is anything in there worth contextualising to a human artefact.

I make a quick list on my phone, a bunch of tasks for tomorrow: Helena’s expectations; agree protocols; discuss do’s and don’ts; search for apartments online/newspapers; check apartments out(?).

Okay. That’s one day, then. I’ll do this again tomorrow. This feels doable.

One day at a time, one day at a time, I repeat the mantra in my head over and over again while running the pads of my thumbs on the phone’s keypad.

“One day at a time,” I whisper, stand up and head upstairs, to my room. Alone.

 

The first few days are hard. It’s like we can’t even talk to each other anymore. Every conversation feels like an interview, one of us asks the questions, the other one answers. Sometimes we swap, sometimes we don’t. It’s so stiff and forced I constantly feel the need to crack my neck and Helena constantly plays with her ring or her locket.

When we do talk, it’s about Warehouse business, about her work or about mine, about protocol and security. We don’t talk about anything else. I don’t think I’m ready for anything emotional or deep, but I could definitely go with the easy stuff, like literature or art or philosophy. But even that feels out of reach.

This is the first time we’ve had to travel anywhere. She has a day-long meeting in Chicago with one of her clients, so there was a very early morning drive to Rapid City, an early morning flight to Chicago and rush-hour traffic to get into town. That’s a lot of one-on-one time, in small, intimate spaces to not be talking.

I hope we get it back. I really want us to have it back. Even if _it_ means just being friends, because right now it doesn’t feel like friendship. Right now it just feels awkward.

The fact I’m kind of terrified of being too close to her doesn’t help. This is Helena, after all, she lives to invade personal space, and I’m being very conscious about keeping my distance. I’m staying away because touching her does _something_ to me; s _omething_ that I really like. But I don’t trust myself to be feeling it and not want more. And then do more. I’m usually very good with self-control, but for some reason I’m not trusting myself with her. Maybe because I _know_ I want her.

I think she feels it too – both the _something_ and the worry, because she seems to be absorbed and introspective when we’re too close, and more of her usual, flirtatious, cocky self when we keep our distance.

So for now, I do the security guard thing, where I am always two steps behind her.

It’s actually kind of fun. I haven’t done it since I joined the Warehouse and I forgot how much I loved it. I get to study people and situation and locations, take in and analyse a lot of information relatively quickly, pay attention to details. Doing the security guard thing definitely plays to my strengths, and I could do with a comfort zone and a confidence boost.

I also get to watch Helena from eight to ten feet away – a lot – without it being creepy. I know I can’t touch her, so watching is a great substitute. I get to appreciate the curve of her waist-into-hip as she walks; how her hair cascades and falls behind her shoulder when she turns around; her profile: sculpted nose, rounded lips that jot out ever so slightly, the shallow dimples in her smile. It actually pays off to hang back a bit.

When we get back to the B&B there is a lot of Warehouse work on my docket, so Helena and I agree that when I'm away she stays at the B&B with Abigail – who doesn’t seem to mind spending time with one of her favourite authors.

The little time that’s left, between her work and the Warehouse, Helena and I spend looking for a place for her to live, because nobody (and by that I mean Artie, Mrs. Frederic and Helena) thinks that embedding Helena in the Warehouse is a good idea at this point.

And at the end of every day I get a to-do list together, at the beginning of every morning Helena and I go through it together. We coordinate calendars, but don’t lock plans down for more than two or three days in advance. I don’t plan farther than that because then it gets complicated.

Keeping it close is keeping it simple: no what ifs. No maybes. No just-this-one-times.

Two weeks in, and “one day at a time” seems to be working well.

 

///   ///

 

The first three weeks of my assignment to her care, Myka is more of a shadow than a companion. She spends her time watching and listening. She is almost invisible to me, always two steps outside my field of vision, interested, but not engaging. We speak little beyond pleasantries and necessities.

Although this is difficult as it is frustrating, I have actually found her insistence on keeping her distance a great help in my adapting to her presence again. For every time she enters the room, every time we stand too close to each other, it is as if the weight of our story – with its umpteen glances, subtle innuendos, fleeting touches, missed opportunities – comes alive in a thunderstorm that sparks too closely to primed wood all too eager to become ash.

So for the sake of the future I wish us to have, whatever form it may take, I try to remain on my best behaviour, for I truly would like to stay true to my promise to her, to be a friend she will never lose. And while not too much had happened in my life since I made that promise to her in Boone, enough had happened to make me truly appreciate what I had shared with Myka. My time with her had certainly made my tenure with Warehouse 13 rather special, and her company had – and still has – the tendency to lighten me in a way I am yet to fully comprehend.

This is the talk with which I convince myself when I wake up at the bed and breakfast; when I catch a glimpse of her on the way to or from the bathroom in her night clothes, still ruffled from sleep; when we drive places silently; when she reaches out to turn my attention to a situation; when she steals a glance or catches me steal one in kind.

Seeing her again, facing her, being so close; knowing that we may share anything from a number of days to a lifetime in each other’s company as artefact and carer, makes every slumbering seed of emotion I had ever felt for her – from admiration to longing, reverence to decadence, passion to submission – awaken into vibrant life. There is nothing I want more than to explore the orchard these seedlings are growing into.

But Myka asked for time.

For now, she, and the emotions she evokes in me, are a forbidden garden: to see but not touch, and it is possible that that, in itself, makes their appeal greater.

Whether or not that is the case, I struggle to contain the pangs of need that tug at me when our eyes meet, when she stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, when she responds to my quips with as little as a gentle smirk.

 

On the third weekend since my return she is waiting for me in a very casual summer outfit on the patio with breakfast. I join her at the table for some coffee, which we sip in relatively comfortable silence, enjoying the chirp and hum of birds and insects in the bed and breakfast’s garden.

“I haven’t had a weekend in, like, six years,” her eyes are smiling. They are beautiful. She is beautiful.

“Is that so?” I reach for the newspaper she placed between us.

She nods emphatically. “It’s so great to have a weekend,” she collects her mug, consumes caffeine through scent. “Thanks to you,” her green eyes sparkle playfully at me from above the lip of the mug.

I smile back at her. It is possibly the first time she’d shared something personal with me since my return. Those pesky tugs seem to be more intense, more frequent and considerably more distracting. Subduing them is a truly difficult task, bordering on futile; so I choose to change the subject. I scan the newspaper in front of me. “I take it the hunt for a permanent abode continues?”

“Yup,” she responds and I’m already engrossed in the options she highlighted for me.

I can feel her gaze burning into me as I read the entries circled with thick red marker on the thin, grey paper. “I beg your pardon to be bringing this up in this manner, but isn’t searching for accommodation in a newspaper a little old fashioned?”

She laughs, loudly; the first laugh I heard of hers since my return. This morning seems to be that of firsts. I look up at her and grin.

“It is,” she answers with a slow blink. “But Claud has already cross referenced these with realtors and the CraigsLists of this neck of the woods.”

I chuckle. “I’m surprised we yet to have exhausted the rental market in Featherhead.”

She laughs again. “I think we’re not far off.”

Some of the entries seem more interesting than others, and I assign them priorities. In my peripheral vision, Myka is still smiling, looking at me. I do my best not to show I’ve noticed, because she will stop if I she knows I notice.

I do not want her to stop staring.

She does, eventually, put her mug down and gets up. “I’m going to get my stuff,” she pats her pockets for keys and phone and Farnsworth. “Ten minutes?”

I fold the paper and look up at her, “Five will see me well.” I get up to have a quick walk around the garden, to prepare for the day. This is somewhat of a ritual now – a quick walk in which I remind myself of my truths: there is something between Myka and I, we both acknowledge it in our own way; I hope it grows and blossoms; and I hope it grows to Myka’s pace, as well as my own.

Lastly, I remind myself that she, with her mane of curls, inquisitive eyes, sweet smile, brilliant mind and intriguing nature, is worth every minute of waiting. Worth every second.

I know that that every second that passes, every minute, every day – we both change. Nothing in this world is made to remain as it is, nothing is made to last. Everything changes. Even the sturdiest of beliefs can crumble under the right circumstances; even the sturdiest of emotions. As I take in the fresh warm air around me I account for my thoughts and feelings. Today, I declare, I am unchanged enough to sustain the wait.

I make my way to the front porch just as Myka walks out the door. She hands me the folded newspaper and walks, determined, to her car. I take one last deep, calming breath, preparing myself for another day of Myka’s ghostly presence.

“I’m guessing…” she starts the car, “Rapid Valley first, then the one on Parkview, then Fifth and Cathedral, then Madison.”

I am impressed she pegged my priorities to a tee, even though I clearly shouldn’t be. It is Myka, after all. “You know me so terribly well,” I smirk at her. “It’s disconcerting.”

She smiles back, pulls her sunglasses down and we head off to Featherhead.

“How was the retrieval in Mexico?” I ask after ten minutes of relative silence.

“Pete was in heaven,” she answers, matter of fact, “I didn’t enjoy it half as much as he did.”

“Did my suggestion for identifying the artefact abuser work?”

“Like a charm,” she smiles briefly.

Another ten silent minutes pass, during which I marvel at the never-ending vastness of the South Dakota horizon. There is something spellbinding in the straight that stretches all around us, as far as the eye can see – and far, far beyond.

“I have a medical next week,” she breaks my semi-meditative state.

I tear my eyes from the infinite landscape and turn to face her. A medical means her remission will be brought up, hoping remission is still the status. She is not looking concerned or worried. She is simply driving, same as always. I wonder why she brings this up.

She answers me without my asking. “I saw something in your diary on Thursday afternoon and wanted to check if we needed to be out or if you could stay at the B&B.”

Ah. Scheduling. “Neither, actually. It’s a reminder to do some research,” I keep watching her for signs of anything other than the equilibrium she is in.

I would like to enquire further, but I am concerned. Of all the things that have come to pass between us, my absence during her battle with cancer is outranked only by holding a gun to her head. Remaining silent does not seem to be reaping any rewards, so I contemplate a different strategy, one that involves stepping outside the confines of present discomfort. I take a breath and ask, “Would you like me to join you?”

She looks surprised, opens her mouth to say something, but stops. Then starts again, then stops. “Are you serious?” her tone is doused in scepticism.

“I am,” I answer, remaining persistent with my strategy and my unwavering in resolve to be there for her if she’ll have me.

She raises her eyebrows while weighing the options. “It’s in Sioux Falls,” she states.

“In the field office, I know.”

“That’s the other side of the state,” she notes.

“I know.”

“That’s a four hour drive,” she is not letting go.

“I know,” I’m not letting go either.

“The medical is a couple of hours, at least…” she is assiduous in her attempt to deter me from going.

“That is perfectly alright.”

“It’ll be a waste of a day.”

“Hardly,” I can be assiduous as well.

“Helena…” her tone suggests she is losing her patience.

“If you do not wish for me to be there, Myka, simply say so. I will not take offence.”

She sighs heavily and taps her fingers on the wheel. She inhales deeply, and exhales slowly and loudly. She clears her throat once. Then again a few minutes later. “Thank you for the offer,” she says and glances quickly in my direction.

A part of me is relieved, because as much as I would like to think I can be of use to her there, I am not sure I know how to. The other part of me, possibly bigger than the first, is disappointed; heartbroken, even.

“I’d love for you to be there,” she says quietly and how quickly a broken heart mends, “but I don’t want you to waste your time.”

It’ll be my pleasure, Myka, darling. I don’t say it out loud, though.

“And I don’t know if I’ll be able to have you in there with me,” she nearly whispers, “not because they won’t let you, but because I am not sure I’d want you to.”

I can wait. I’ll be there before. I’ll be there after.

She remains quiet for a while, mulling things over. “I don’t want you to waste a day sitting around waiting for me,” she concludes.

Wasting a day waiting for her will be a sheer pleasure. Truly. After a moment’s consideration, I decide to tell her that. “This will be the best sort of a wasted day, Myka, the pleasure will be all mine.”

She steals a glace in my direction again and smiles. “Will you be able to do your research on the road?”

“Yes,” I consider what I want to say next carefully, “but I may not want to. I may just want to be there with you. Or for you.” I correct myself.

A shy smile creeps up her cheeks. “Can I think about it?”

“Of course you can,” and we spend the rest of the drive listening to a local radio station.

 

///   ///

 

There’s an MRIs and two ultrasounds and an echocardio and a whole lot of blood tests on top of the usual stuff they do on an annual medical. Three hours in, at 2pm, the doctors send me to the cafeteria to wait for the results.

I walk down to the atrium on the ground floor and see Helena sitting at a table with her laptop and two cups of something hot.

“You expecting someone?” I ask, leaning into the back of an empty chair next to her.

She smiles up at me, “Only you,” she adjust her chair so it is turned towards the one I’m leaning against.

Her smile calms me. “How did you know I was coming?” I sit down and pick the cup up, take its lid off and smell it. It’s a herbal tea of some sort.

“That male nurse over there,” she gestures to a tall, young man behind a desk, “has been keeping me appraised of your movements.”

“Has he, now?” I take a sip from the cup and scrunch my face. It tastes like boiled water and dried sticks.

“Do you not like it?” she asks, “Apologies, darling. I thought you would do, given rose bush tea has a very unique and strong taste, like your coffee,” she takes the cup from me and smells it. “Perhaps I brewed it too long,” she muses. “He noticed us arriving together this morning and proposed to keep me informed. I could not decline his offer.”

She looks entirely absorbed in what I’m growing to understand is her way of taking care of me. It’s sweet. Very very sweet. “Thank you,” I take the cup back from her and take another sip. It doesn’t taste as bad, I suppose.

“What next?” she sips her own tea.

“Now we wait,” I say and feel the anxiety and worry begin to rage. “Do you want to eat something?”

“I’d love to,” she answers and moves to get up.

I place a hand on her shoulder, “I’ll get us something,” I smile at her. Sitting and waiting is frustrating enough, I need to fill this time with as much normality as I can. I go to queue up with the rest of the agents and get us some grilled cheese sandwiches and a salad bowl.

“So what’re are you researching?” I ask as we start eating.

“Models for improving efficiencies,” she answers.

“Big topic,” I comment with a smile.

“Rather,” she doesn’t seem amused by it, she’s on a mission. “There are many variations on similar themes, all of which seem to have been adapted from manufacturing environments,” she explains. “And for all their modernity they are all rather Victorian in their attitude, if I may say so myself.”

I look at her intently. I’m not sure I will be able to stay focussed for the whole of it, but it will sure make for a good distraction. I chew on my sandwich and stare at the patterned tablecloth.

“From the sixties of the previous century onwards there has been the surge of modelling improvement, from Lean to six sigma to TQM. I find it fascinating that at the same time, on a decisively parallel track, there has been a similar surge in leadership modelling, yet the twain never seemed to have met. To top that…” she trails off.

The fact she stops talking yanks me out of my state of distraction. I look at her, then around the room quickly, to assess if she had noticed something – a risk or a danger, then back at her. “What?”

“I should not be labouring you with this,” she whispers.

“You’re not,” I assure her.

“I am happy to be silent,” she offers.

I shake my head.

“I am happy to listen if you wish to talk,” this time her offer is more of a hesitant question, like she’s not sure she wants me to talk.

“I don’t want to talk, really,” I say and finish chewing my mouthful. “I’m a little nervous,” I take a sip of the tea to wash down the sandwich, “really nervous, actually, so learning about improving efficiency sounds great to me.”

She looks at me with what looks a lot like pity, but could also be concern. I’ve never seen her express either, so I’m not sure.

“Seriously, Helena,” I take another bite from the sandwich, “keep talking.”

So she does. She’s not convinced at first, so she stops every minute or so, but soon enough she is in a flow or explaining what she’s been reading. She condenses it, compares it and overlays it with a bunch of other stuff. What she comes up with is complicated. Even if I were able to pay her my full attention I would have probably struggled to follow.

Without really noticing, I smile as I watch her construct her own model, which is a bizarre amalgamation of most of the models she explained to me, I think, and she is completely absorbed and excited. She’s inventing something, and it’s beautiful to watch. She’s beautiful to watch.

It isn’t until the male nurse comes by to call me back upstairs that I realise just how well her distraction worked.

She stops speaking and looks at me.

I can feel the blood drain from my face and I exhale a shaky breath, and I look back at her.

She places a reassuring hand on my arm. “I’m here,” she says.

I nod and bite my lip. Then get up and start clearing the table.

She reaches for my wrists and gently stills my hands.

I nod again, taking her cue to leave the mess be. “I’ll be back,” I straighten and look down at her.

“I’ll be here,” she smiles.

I turn back to the stairs and run up, steeling my resolve to be able to deal with whatever it is that the panel has to say.

 

I leave the medical panel’s room after 15 minutes. I run both hands through my hair and breathe deeply – once, twice, a third time. I start pacing to help ease the constricted feeling I have in my chest because I can’t quite stomach what they’ve told me.

Two years after end of treatment and I’m still in remission.

My cheeks are burning and I well up. I feel wrung out, exhausted. I just want to leave here, go back to Univille and sleep today off.

I walk down the stairs, Helena’s sitting by the same table, but the table is clear. No signs of lunch or her stuff. Her briefcase is packed up by her feet and she’s sitting very still.

I walk up to her, “You ready?”

She gets up and turns around. She looks like she wants to ask me how it went, what they said, but she says nothing.

“Are we okay to get going?” I ask again.

“Of course,” she picks up her briefcase.

I begin a firm march towards the exit, and check that she’s behind me.

When we are out of the building, inside the car, I cross my arms on the steering wheel and collapse on it with a harsh exhale. It comes out as a laugh that turns to a sob and then a laugh again. God, I’m a mess.

She’s sitting still, sort of avoiding eye contact, but not.

I groan a laugh and bury my face in my palms, “I’m still in remission,” I say and groan again, “and I’m sorry I’m not much of a bodyguard today.”

I feel the heat of her palm at the base of my neck. “I did not – for a minute – expect you to be my bodyguard today,” she answers. “And that is excellent news,” she adds and I think her voice is shaking.

I tilt my head back, wipe my cheeks with my sleeve and put the keys in the ignition, “Let’s get out of here,” I start the car.

“Will you let me drive?” she asks.

 

Helena drives us back from Sioux Falls to Univille. It feels much quicker than the drive up this morning, firstly, because the way back always feels shorter than the way to. Secondly, I fell asleep once we were on the interstate. Thirdly, Helena was driving, so I’m willing to bet pretty much anything she drove faster than she should have.

She wakes me up when we are 20 minutes away from the B&B and warns me that everybody is eagerly anticipating our return. I spend the twenty minutes trying to think how to tell them, trying to think what their reactions will be. I must have gone through about a hundred different scenarios in my head when Helena pulls the SUV into the drive.

Whoever said that sharing good news is easier than bad was an idiot.

When we walk in, the troop is assembled in the sitting room around Artie’s cookies and Twizzlers and two buckets of ice cream.

Claudia walks up to me and gives me a tight hug. “Whatever it is,” she mumbles into my shoulder, “we’re ready for it.”

I can’t bring myself to look at any of them, because Claudia is biting on her thumb, and Pete looks hurt, and Steve is jittery. There is too much tension and nervousness and anticipation, and I had too much of those today already, so I just blurt it out, unceremoniously, that I’m still in remission.

Claud, who didn’t walk too far, jumps on me again, and Steve is not far behind her. Then Pete comes up and gives me a tight squeeze, then Abigail. Even Artie gives me a hug. Then all the intensity dissolves and they start talking excitedly over each other and turn to celebrate my health with what is quite possibly the unhealthiest meal I’ve ever shared with them.

I’m relieved they are relieved.

Helena turns to leave the room and I follow her. I call her name and reach for her but stop myself from actually touching her. I’m not sure I could handle looking into her eyes and say what I want to say, because I need to say something that means lot more than what the words actually are, “I just wanted to say thank you,” I say quietly.

It’s probably not her eyes I’m worried about, but mine. She has a way of reading me when she looks at me. My eyes always give me away. So I drop my gaze for a second when she turns around. I look back up and I forget to breathe, because her eyes are soft and kind and grateful.

“How you were with me today…” I start, but my throat closes up. I feel like she found me out. She can see right through me – how grateful I am, how she is what held me together. So I look down to my hands that busy themselves with meaningless movement. “You really helped.” I whisper. “Thanks.”

And for the sake of showing her I trust her, for the sake of being honest, I look back up and _let her_ read me.

“The pleasure is all mine,” she smiles.

Then I smile.

Then I close the gap between us and wrap her in my arms.


	2. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four months in.  
> Helena begins to struggle and question her holding back and Myka lets show more than she intends to when she meets Helena’s friends from Portland.

We wind up exhausting the rental market in Featherhead. There is, after all, only so much a small University town, and the only claim to fame of this part of the flats of Dakotas, can offer; so I decide to buy a house. For many reasons, it is a rather logical thing to do: the investment is reasonable, the return is decent for the market.

Furthermore, having one’s name on a title deed of a property carries a notion that forces one to acknowledge they are of this time, a notion of one placing roots. If only by bureaucratic standards.

I spend a great deal of time considering this notion, for I find myself conflicted. As comforting as roots may be, they may be placed in error.

There is something deeply tenuous about being considered an artefact, about being associated with the Warehouse. I could be sent on a mission that will tear me from my home for months; I could be moved from South Dakota altogether in the face of a threat. Dangers occur on a daily basis in this world of endless wonder, matters and priorities change constantly.

At a place where change is the only constant, pardon the cliché, roots – a binding, constricting element – are rarely a wise strategy.

Based on my experiences in Warehouse 12 as well as those at 13, every few months an arch-enemy reveals themselves and agents’ lives are thrown into chaos in an attempt to undo an impending catastrophe soon to be unleashed. I can only hypothesise what that will mean to my attempt at having a normal life on the outskirts of this threatening madness.

I can only hypothesise what that will mean to Myka’s.

It has been a little over four months since she had been assigned to be my caretaker and we are yet to learn about the nature of this assignment. As we lack guidance from the Regents, she and I have invented our own means of managing our relationship as artefact and caretaker, although I suspect Myka may be using it as a means to manage the personal aspect of her relationship with me as well.

At the end of each day she considers priorities and potential issues in the day (or days) to come, and every morning she reviews those with me, discusses them with me, plans them with me; ‘ _with’_ being an operative word. This is the first time in two years that I have a sense of – perhaps not control, as such, but at the very least contribution – to Warehouse involvement in my life. The Regents and their aides were not in the habit of engaging with me. In their mind, I was meant to be secured from afar, a task they executed poorly time and time again.

While Myka and I shared many moments, perilous and pleasurable alike, I was never aware of her abilities as ‘personal security’ – I believe that is the current term applied to her position. She is very personal indeed. I realise my taking a liking to her professional stance is tinted with my affection for her, but one can hardly ignore how personable she is, even when she is a silent totem encased in a dark suit just behind my left shoulder.

But those moments are rare. Our conversations are easy these days. We have grown back into our old habit of conducting long, heated debates about history, literature, science and philosophy. Banter has been allowed back into our exchanges.

We have certainly found our footing in friendship once more – and a wonderful feeling it is, to be back in each other’s graces. Occasionally, however, I am overcome with the sensation I felt when we stood by her car that first evening. The weight and thickness of words we are yet to speak, emotions we are yet to express and needs we are yet to fully explore.

And when I am overcome by them, my memory throws me back to that lunchtime walk.

 

_She looks me in the eye, back straight, knees slightly bent, so that we are of equal height. It’s the first time I had seen the golden rings that encircle her pupils. They fascinate me so, those rings, that I am almost rendered unable to process what she says to me, but then she speaks: “…and honesty only works when we trust each other.”_

 

There are times when I consider indulging myself in those unspoken words, unexpressed emotions and unexplored needs under the guise of submitting to the trust and honesty she spoke of. There are times when our emotions almost show, when needs dare to peek from behind the curtain of control with an errant breath or a smile or a touch.

It would be so easy to indulge. It is so hard not to.

She and I have been dancing at the foothills of this precarious peak for so long, I often fear we have made it sacred ground. But when one of us sets foot on the forbidden path that might lead us up this mountain, we blush or chide ourselves or fail to rally the courage needed to take another step that may – or may not – bring us closer to the summit.

The past few hours have been filled with such wayward, regretful first steps. Myka and I are in my storage unit in Portland, sorting through my belongings, packing them up, readying them for shipment to my new home in Featherhead. The space in the unit is tight. Moving around it is challenging. Having its contents open to her forces us to review topics we still struggle to discuss freely.

I am so grateful for the sound of an approaching car.

I walk out of the storage unit to meet the invited intruder – a girl who reminded me so much of Claudia, I could not help but fall into her friendship.

“Helena,” I hear my name, lilted in a thick, Glaswegian accent from the small featured, yet largely tattooed girl who steps out of the car.

“Rachel, darling,” I beam at her and rush to give her a hug.

 

///   ///

 

I take two steps to the left so I can maintain line of sight of her. But I’m also just downright curious to see who her friends are. I know better than to make myself obvious, so I keep doing what I was doing – putting books into the moving company’s boxes.

But then she calls her ‘darling’ and my gut twinges and I have to look.

She’s hugging a small-ish girl who looks a bit like Claudia, but is a little rounder. And older. She’s also pierced to the hilt and covered in tattoos.

She rarely calls anyone darling.

Well… anyone but me.

I bite the inside of my cheek and go back to the books and the boxes.

 

///   ///

 

“We were all wee bit worried for you,” she chuckles, “being whisked away like that… by suits.”

“I had warned you in the past, had I not?” I share her mischievous smile.

“What? That you used to work for a secret government organisation?” she whispers in an ominous tone, but then laughs heartily. “And you thought we believed you?”

My jaw drops in shock. The smattering of times I had divulged details about my life to Rachel, I had been nothing but honest and true.

“You?” her pierced eyebrows shoot up. “The great granddaughter of the father of science fiction?” she laughs again. “I think the word I’m looking for, Helena, is irony.”

I sigh and dart an incredulous look towards her. “Well, do you believe me now?”

“I do,” she smiles and looks into my storage unit, where Myka is inconspicuously monitoring the situation while repacking my books. Rachel eyes Myka appreciatively for a moment. “Is hottie-in-a-pantsuit over there your bodyguard?”

“She is,” I share her leering gaze onto the tall woman handling my personal belongings. I take a moment to appreciate the subtle arc of Myka’s jawline, how her hair falls below it and rests behind the curve of her shoulder; I’m considering how successful she thinks she is in appearing to be absorbed in sorting my books; and I feel a bit of pride that she is my bodyguard; my friend; the keeper of my affections.

Rachel purses her lips and hums her recognition, then looks at me with glinting, playful eyes. “And whatever happened to the lucky one? The one who stole your heart?”

My smile widens and mere seconds later it is time for Rachel’s jaw to drop.

“No!” she gasps, “That’s her?” then whispers, “That’s Myka?”

I keep my lips pressed tightly as my smile grows.

“You… dirty dog, Helena Wells,” she says quietly. “You are just awash with irony, aren’t you?”

While I do not consider myself a dishevelled pet of any sorts, I revel in Rachel’s term of endearment. Irrespective to my canine likeness, she is correct. My apparent closeness to Myka compared with what Rachel knows of my feelings for her has an irony that cannot be lost on even the most obtuse a person.

She nudges me with her elbow. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” she laces her arm in mine.

“If I must,” I look back at her and we walk towards the unit.

Myka looks up at us, straightens her stance, holds her head up and places a hand on her hip.

“Myka, this is Rachel,” I gesture towards my peer, “a dear friend and a local.”

“Hi,” Myka responds laconically with a sharp smile and cautious eyes, scrutinising Rachel and how familiar she is with me, then extends her hand forward.

“Nice to meet you, pantsuit,” she responds and shakes Myka’s hand firmly, still wearing the smile of a devil. “Helena told me a lot about you.”

As untrue as that is, I choose not to react. I never explicitly discussed my feelings for Myka (or anyone or thing) with Rachel. It was Rachel’s sensitivity (or imagination) that filled my silences so perfectly, I always felt there was little need for me to confirm or deny.

If only Rachel knew that any fiction she may find in me was of her own making.

Upon reflection, I am, perhaps, steeped in irony.

“Really?” Myka takes a small step back, adopting the stance of a Secret Service agent: tall, striking, stiff, aloof.

“Let’s just say that she told me a lot by saying absolutely nothing,” Rachel throws, then walks into me as she steps into the unit. She inches past Myka while smiling broadly up at her, doing her best to minimise contact as she walks past in such a tiny space. Myka smiles awkwardly back at her.

Rachels makes her way towards a poster I had acquired shortly before leaving Boone, one that depicts four sketches of Mattise’s Blue Nude. She picks it up, and spends a few minutes studying it. She then turns to look at me, then Myka, then the poster again. “Have I ever told you you’ve got great taste, Helena?”

I look at Myka and smile.

Myka appears tense. Her lips are pressed shut and her eyes are wide. She breathes slowly through her nose. The few times I had seen her like this, she was angry and often pointing a gun at me.

Yet, I cannot pin what it is about this situation that would anger her. Fluster, perhaps. But not anger.

“Not lately, dear one,” I say and walk towards her, “see something you like?” I say while looking into Myka’s eyes.

Myka’s lips part and her cheeks redden ever so slightly.

I smirk as I wrap my arm around Rachel’s shoulder as she begins to stake her claims over my small art collection.

 

///   ///

 

I don’t know why this is bothering me so much.

No. That’s not true. I know why.

I know why, and it’s stupid.

Okay. Maybe not stupid. Just… I don’t know... Hard to admit.

I see her with them, with her friends from Oregon. She just fits in with them in a way she never fit in with us.

It’s so easy for them. She is so easy with them in a way she was never easy with me.

On our last evening in Portland, Rachel sees Helena off with a party that feels a lot like that crowd: no plan or structure, off the beaten track and very close together.

We drove out to a beach near Wheeler with a great big bunch of them and their guitars and bongos and stereos and alcohol and weed, and I feel just as out of place now as I would have felt in one of these parties when I was 16.

Not that I was ever invited.

Helena seems so relaxed with them. She laughs and drinks and jokes and just looks… _Normal_.

They treat her as their own even though she looks nothing like they do – she dresses well, keeps her hair tidy, has no tattoos. Anthropologically speaking, she bears no markings of their tribe. But they accept her as one of them, she _is_ one of them.

She is so tactile and affectionate. She hugs and punches and play-wrestles.

I’m uncomfortable and out of place and jealous.

Rachel comes up to me for the hundredth time. “Come on, pantsuit,” she squeezes my shoulders like she knows how uptight I am, like she’s a friend who cares, “loosen up a bit.”

I take a breath to say that I can’t, that I’m on duty.

“Oh don’t even bother blaming your job,” she sings before I get a word in, and shoves a bottle of beer in my hand. “It’s only one beer, and I’ll consider it a personal favour,” she sits down next to me. She’s quiet for a little while. “You’re taking away our beloved daughter, don’t you know,” she opens her own bottle and holds it up towards me.

I unscrew the cap and click my bottle neck against hers. I never thought of Helena as a daughter. Anyone’s daughter. Not just _theirs_.

I shake my head.

“Aye,” she sighs. “Our beloved Helena, who stumbled into our little group only by force of not fitting anywhere else,” she sucks beer out of her bottle.

I take a sip out of mine and leave the bottle pressed to my lips. I know I shouldn’t be drinking, but it’s kind of a peace-pipe moment, and if I don’t drink I will probably have to say something, and I really – _really_ – don’t want to.

And it hits me, then. That the only place Helena probably ever fit in since the bronze, is with a bunch of people who don’t fit in. Probably not even in Portland.

“If you weren’t an agent of the law, you’ll’ve probably fit in quite well too,” she adds and leans into me with a playful nudge.

I smile. She’s probably right. The only reason I am where I am is because I don’t fit anywhere. Not even in the Secret Service. Having Mrs. Frederic pull me out of the Service and into the Warehouse was probably the best thing that could’ve happened.

She chuckles. “I can see why she likes you,” she looks out at the group Helena’s with. Someone is trying to teach her to play a chord on the guitar, while singing a rock ballad overly dramatically. “You speak just as much as she does. I can imagine the richness of the conversations you two must be having.”

If only she knew.

We sit silently, drinking beer, breathing in the ocean air, until someone calls her to take over as Titania in act two in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. She asks me if I want to play Demetrius – the irony isn’t lost on me – and even though I know the whole thing by heart, I decline politely.

Just before she gets up, she leans over and says “Do take care of her,” and her tone sounds different to how she sounded until now. I turn to look at Rachel and she looks serious. In the two and a half days I’ve known this woman, she never looked serious. “She cares for you more than she dares to admit to anyone,” she stands up and shakes sand from her pants, “not even herself.”

I have to choke back a lump in my throat, and nod as enthusiastically as I can.

 

///   ///

 

Myka wakes me just before 6am. “We need to get going. Our flight’s at 8,” she whispers.

I nod and stretch under the heavy, smoky blankets that envelop me. I love nature wholeheartedly, but cannot contend with how unforgiving it is on one’s coccyx and shoulders and neck.

She helps me up and I stretch again.

Myka places hesitant hands on my shoulders, starting a gentle rub. I am so stiff, I cannot contain the euphoric moan her soft touch elicits. She freezes at the sound of it, pauses for a few seconds, then grants me a final squeeze and lets go.

I turn my head towards her, “Thank you,” I mouth.

I bid my farewells to the sleeping band on the beach and Myka and I climb up the cliff to reach the car. Our walk is silent, our drive is silent. I reckon her encounter with this unusual bunch will have left her thoughtful.

It leaves me thoughtful as well. How accepted I was by this group, even though they knew nothing of me. They knew nothing of my grief, of my darkness. Perhaps that was the key, knowing nothing. Yet, Myka knows me better than anyone.

Could that be what keeps us so awkwardly apart?

 

_I am standing in the epicentre of Warehouse 2. This is it, Helena. Three cheers. I congratulate myself for a plan well thought out, well executed. Nearly there. Not long now._

_I have two minutes before Peter and Myka arrive and I must gather all I have in me to let go of whatever I convinced myself I share with Myka._

_I have less than two minutes to let go of all the beauty and wonder and calm and excitement a person could inspire in me; a person who slipped under my skin, behind my defences, into my heart so easily it begs belief in the power of forgiveness. Of Trust._

_I have one minute left to remind myself of the wrath and pain and helplessness that are forged by losing a person so close to me._

_This minute passes all too quickly._

_They are behind me now. Excited, proud, happy._

_I do hope she can forgive me._

 

“Helena?” Myka’s voice startles me back into reality. “Are you okay?”

I nod tiredly at her. “I must have fallen asleep,” I brush her concern off. I have no real interest in sharing with her this difficult memory without calculating its cost to the newly found balance in our relationship.

She looks at me as if she doesn’t quite believe me. “We’re at the airport. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Always,” I say with a strained smile, stretch again, and get out of the car.

We head towards the terminal. The morning is crisp and clear, daylight firms just enough to remove the grey hue that the pale, autumn dawn left in its wake.

Myka walks in half her usual pace, a fact for which I am grateful as I am still rather stiff from the few hours’ sleep I had on cold, packed sand.

“Did you ever…” Myka muses as quietly as aloud can be, “with any of them?” as though she’s ashamed or afraid to ask.

I had done many a things with many of them. I assume Myka is likely to be referring to sexual encounters, but she may as well be hinting towards a romantic or emotional involvement. “Darling, I’m afraid you will have to be more specific.”

She takes a deep breath. “Did you and Rachel ever sleep…” she starts and trails off.

“Never.”

“And Jay?” she asks a few seconds later.

I huff through a dubious smile. To her, Jay and I will have appeared close last night. He has always been very affectionate towards me, and – at times – can be a tad overbearing with his preference for physical closeness. “No.”

“And Camille?”

I look at her as she paces, her gaze fixed at her feet. “No,” I answer and hasten to ask in return, “Will you be enquiring about each and every one of them? The flight may not be long enough.”

She looks up at me briefly and she looks very tired; tired and something else. Rachel’s spirit must still be lingering beside me, because I am feeling playful and decide to hazard a guess. “If I didn’t know any better, darling, I may suspect you of being jealous.”

Her cheeks flush bright red in an instant. Even the thin daylight cannot hide how emotion paints her. I wait for her to say or do something, but she just walks at the same pace, eyes locked to the path.

“Fact of the matter is, Myka, they know very little about me.” I try to assuage her jealousy, convince her that the connection she and I share runs deeper, means so much more to me. “I would go so far as to say they don’t know me at all, and never wanted to know me,” that is a fair and honest assessment of Rachel and her party. “The ease of my relationship with them is anchored by superficiality,” I explain.

“None of them know me the way that you do, Myka, none of them know what I had, what I lost. What I am capable of.” I speak softly as I rifle through my time with her until our paths parted. “I do not believe I will have saved any lives had it been them on that chair in Hong Kong, nor will my life had been spared had it been them with the Janus coin in their hands,” my voice falls quieter. “None of them will have been able to talk me down from–– “ my breath falls short of completing the sentence.

She stops and looks at me, her tired eyes burn into me with questions, with statements. But she speaks not a single word.

And here we are again, at the foothills of our holy mountain. I close my eyes and summon all the courage I have in me, all the courage that Rachel and her merry band of misfits planted in me last night. “After Giselle,” I stop, because after Giselle there was no one of consequence. After Giselle I moved to Portland, had a handful of adventures which sole purpose were to dispel loneliness. Because I knew.

I knew I missed _her_. I knew I wanted _her_.

My time in Portland, as familiar as it would appear to her, was entirely about acceptance. It was my time to journey through everything that had happened since Christina died. Rachel and her troop provided the comfort of unconditional, wholehearted acceptance. They wanted nothing from me and I had nothing to offer. They allowed me to consider who I were, what it was I wanted: a woman torn from her time, lost to her kin, with little to keep her grounded in this world but a secret life of danger which has the tendency to uncover the worst in her. It was their acceptance that allowed me to put my past behind me and look ahead. And what I saw in front of me was Myka.

“After Giselle I moved to Portland, and I knew.” That is the best I can volunteer.

“Knew what?” her voice is cold, hurriedly burying what her face was so quick to give away.

I sigh, biding my time. “That you were the one that I missed.”

 

///   ///

 

I walk around in the B&B’s garden, cooling down after a run. Helena and I landed from Portland two hours ago, and I just had to go out and release this… _energy_. It was a good 5 miles, I think as I start to stretch, and the sound of someone clearing their throat makes me jump.

I look behind me and find Mrs. Frederic sitting on the bench by the rose bushes.

“Good morning, Agent Bering,” she says calmly.

“’Morning,” I reply and straighten, cradling my elbows in my arms.

“Do join me,” she gestures to the other side of the bench, next to her.

I sit down.

“How have you been keeping?”

“Okay,” I say, then clear my throat. “I’m okay.”

“I hear you are still in remission,” of course she knows, and it’s nice that she’s making an effort to make me feel comfortable.

“Yeah,” I smile. “Big relief.”

“That is truly wonderful news, Myka,” she looks almost as relieved as the rest of the team when I told them. I think it surprises me on some level, even though I know she cares. If she hugged me I’d be surprised. “And how has Helena been?”

I take a minute to think about it. “She’s okay, I think,” I ask as much as I answer.

“Any difficulties adjusting?”

“I don’t think so,” I think back to the four and a bit months we’ve spent together. “She feels intense sometimes, you know? Like something is bothering her,” I try to see if this resonates in Mrs. Frederic, but she doesn’t really show if things resonate. “Like she’s in really… you know… Deep thought.”

She nods knowingly. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“You’ve seen it too?”

“Consider her past, Agent Bering. She had spent much of her life in… deep thought, as you call it.”

Of course. Bronzing leaves you aware, leaves you thinking. “So, uhm,” I don’t know how to broach the subject, “do you want me do anything about it?”

She looks at me with a mysterious smile. “I believe you are doing it already,” her smile broadens a touch, I don’t think I had ever seen her smile like that. “And what you haven’t been doing until now you will probably be doing soon enough.”

I nod even though I’m not sure I understand. “So I’m going to continue being her handler, then?”

“So long as glove fits, Agent Bering.”

“For how long?”

“So long as the glove fits.”

I close my eyes for a second to remember all the questions I have for her, but in the split second my eyes are closed, Mrs. Frederic is gone.

I stay on the bench in the garden and think about Portland. About Rachel and her gang. About Helena when she’s with them. I think about what Helena said, that it was because they don’t know her that she could just _be_ with them.

I can’t undo what I know of her, and I don’t want to undo what I know of her. What I know of her is what makes me admire her, proud of her, love her.

But maybe… maybe I can try to not let it govern how I know her now. Maybe I need to get to know her now, the way she is now.

It sounds like a good idea. I just have no idea how to do it.

 

///   ///

 

Three days after our return from Portland, we are in my newly acquired home. The delivery company arrives late in the afternoon with the boxes that Myka and I had packed in Portland. The driver, who brings the two dozen boxes or so into the house, flirts with Myka unashamedly. I can tell she is a little uncomfortable with his attention by her body language and smile – they are forced and unnatural. She does, however, flirt back.

It surprises me a bit. It also angers me a bit. I had never seen her flirt with others before.

The rational part of me attempts to appease the jealousy with highly reasonable arguments: she is being polite and sociable; it is only flirting; I would have done the same in her position; strike that – I will have flirted _more_ than she does.

I am not entirely sure this is working, so I tend to the boxes, distributing them between the rooms in which their contents belong – kitchen, front room, bedroom.

She signs for the delivery and ushers the driver out, not without him attempting to get her number twice. Both times she refuses – most civilly and elegantly.

She joins me in the kitchen and starts unpacking. She asks me where I would like to have every item placed. After five or six times, I turn to her, somewhat irked. “It isn’t as though I am drowning in clutter here, Myka. I am sure that wherever you choose to place my dinner plates, I will manage to find them when the time comes.”

Myka smile back at me, amused.

As I turn back to unpack books and trinkets that belong in the dining room, I feel offended on her behalf. She isn’t my staff, it isn’t her duty to help me settle into my new home. She is doing it because she _cares_. Because she wants to be here and be helpful.

Angry at my own outburst, I sigh heavily and walk over to the front room. Or the sitting room. I am not sure what to call it as it serves the function of a front room but it faces the rear of the property. Yet another menial detail with which to anger myself.

I try to calm down by finding a meaningful way in which to order my books on the shelves, but instead I am immersed in a ridiculous dialogue with myself about the meaning of manners; the crux of which is a stern telling off not even my worst governess had given me.

I feel deflated at my loss of temper both at Myka and myself. It is time for a break and the first cup of tea brewed in this household.

I go to the kitchen, where Myka is nearly done unpacking. She found the kettle, filled it with water and placed it on the hob. I look towards her to say thank you, but her back is turned, so I smile – to myself as well as her – switch the hob on and look for the teabags.

They are not by the hob, or the drawers adjacent to it – where I would usually keep them. I’m about to ask Myka where she put them and stop myself, realising this is exactly the reason why she had been asking where I wanted things. Another heavy sigh escapes my lips and I brace myself against the worktop.

I’m stirred by her very close physical presence to my left a moment later.

“Are you okay?” she asks and leans into me lightly, placing two mugs on the worktop, in front of me, a teabag in each. She then disappears briefly and comes back, placing the milk – a whole gallon of it, God bless America – next to her, then leans further in to place the teabag tin against the wall, next to the hob. Where I would place it.

“I am sorry, Myka.”

“About what?” she is so very calm as she walks away again.

“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” I mutter through a disgruntled sigh.

She laughs, “Don’t worry about it,” it sounds like she’s eating something. When she returns, she leans back against the worktop, next to me.

I look up at her from my slump, raising an eyebrow.

She holds a small plastic tray of Kipling’s Almond Slices while taking in the last bite of the slice she was eating.

I raise both eyebrows now.

“These are kinda good,” she gently prizes the second slice out of the tray with her long, slender fingers. She breaks it in two, offering me the larger portion, which I take from her as I straighten.

I haven’t shifted my gaze from her, waiting for her to do something with my apology.

She understands, after a while, that I am waiting for her to respond. “Honestly, Helena, you don’t have to apologise,” she puts the empty package behind her and turns slightly to face me. “Moving house is stressful,” she throws her piece of cake in her mouth, Pete-like, and the kettle whistles.

I switch the hob off and take a bite from my slice. They _are_ nice. Not as nice as _proper_ Almond Cakes, but a kind reminder of the flavour. The cakes were a parting gift from Rachel, who, on top of everything else, played a key role of updating me on many modern British customs and conveniences: Mr. Kipling’s, Jaffa Cakes and builders’ tea included. “I feel I need to apologise,” I pour water into the mugs. “It was terribly unkind of me to speak to you like that.”

Her eyes smile at me, kindly and playfully. “I forgive you, Helena,” she bends forward slightly, obviously indulging me with something she believes is not necessary.

I bow my head slightly and tend to the brewing tea in the mugs.

She stands next to me, observing my actions. I feel how close she is; a little closer than business decorum dictates. I stir the teabags in the hot water, squeeze them against the side of the mug and dump them in the sink. All the while I feel her gaze on me, the piercing, warm stare of eyes so deep and green I need not see to know their shape and colour.

I top the tea off with a touch of milk and feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at the lingering feel of her inquisitive eyes.

She releases a light, breathy laugh. “Took you long enough…”

Goodness. I can hear the smirk on her lips, but I need to look at it to confirm its presence. It has been a while since I’ve seen this smirk. A smouldering ember in the pit of my stomach catches fire. “To do what?”

“To react.”

My blush deepens. This is utterly unlike me.

She chuckles again.

I am not entirely sure what she is doing. Considering her actions since my return, considering her request for time, her demeanour in Portland – I would not have assumed her to be playing games. Not _this_ game; this game at the foothills of our precarious peak.

That said, she had not been quite her usual, professional self since we came back from Oregon. I wouldn’t put it past Myka to be another kind of a dark horse.

I decide to play along, albeit gently. I do not wish to disrupt that careful balance we managed to achieve.

So instead of adopting my usual, cocky, self-assured stance, I wear honesty instead. It is not a new coat for me to wear with Myka, but it tends to be a heavy one, one I struggle to keep on for extended periods of time. It is also a dangerous coat to wear at this moment, given the present mix of agitation, jealousy and her closeness. My want for her is primed and honesty will do nothing to keep it at bay.

“React to what?” I look at her with what I hope she translates is what I am feeling: I want her. I want to touch her, to hold her, to ease her mind. I want to open my whole self to her. I want for her to want me, want to open up to me.

I know it is too soon, I know it is a lot to ask of her. And in spite of knowing all the reasons why I cannot have her, I still _want_ her.

She looks into my eyes for a long moment, and her playful smirk is undone, as if a loose thread is tugged at the seam of her lips, unravelling it, revealing the raw emotion underneath. She takes a breath and straightens in front of me.

Her eyes change colour. From a bright moss green to a deeper shade of green, bordering on grey. She then asks me something and it pulls at every single one of my heartstrings. “You know that I want this, right?” she says, not moving a muscle.

I need her to say what she means, I cannot afford assumptions and misunderstanding. I do not believe she can either. “I’m afraid I will need you to be more—“

“Specific, right,” she finishes for me. She takes a deep breath, her eyes fixed in mine, her hand reaches for mine. Her fingers, still sticky from the almond slice, are lightly touching the knuckles of my left hand. “You know that I want…” her voice tapers off, she clears her throat, “you.”

I nod, not brazenly, not confidently. It is but a humble acknowledgement.

“I know that I said that I needed time,” she starts a thought, and her gaze drops to my shoulder, then down my left arm, to where our fingers are touching. “And I know that what I want right now will make everything more complicated…” she speaks quietly, almost whispering. “But… uhm….”

Her gaze darts back to my eyes and the air between us is thicker than it had ever been. It is so thick is has gravitational pull, I’m sure of it, because I’m pulled closer to her.

“But I want to make sure,” she whispers and swallows thickly, “that you…” she tilts her head slightly, leaning in, “know,” and she dips her head ever so slightly so her nose brushes mine, until her lips reach mine, and they touch softly, but with great purpose.

And it is that gravitational pull that wins in the end because I lean in, or fall in, rather, bracing myself with my right hand against her shoulder.

This kiss lasts a handful of seconds, and feels like nothing and everything at the same time.

I pull away slightly, reluctantly, holding my head down. I feel as though I wished for this to happen too hard and by that forced her to give in to my will too soon, when she was not yet ready.

She takes a deep breath, her sticky fingers clasping my hand.

I open my eyes and look at my hand in hers. “I know,” I whisper, then look up to meet her deep, emerald stare. “I know.”


	3. Winter (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven months in.  
> “ Having settled into a routine in our artefact/handler relationship, Myka and I are tuned into a new harmony based on the mutually agreed understanding we reached in my kitchen. “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some truth in the history and botany mentioned in this chapter, but also a little bit of artistic freedom. I hope this causes no offense to aficionados and those invested in keeping memoriam. 
> 
> (Another note: This chapter wound up much longer than anticipated, so it's split in two.)

The three months that follow see me settling into my new home in Featherhead and into a different life. It is safe to say that by February I have become a full time artefact, a part time consultant and a resident of South Dakota. I even carry the driving license to prove it.

The pickings in this area of the Great Plains are somewhat slim, so my work – as and when it occurs – often takes me away from Featherhead and South Dakota and the Warehouse for a hard earned break. However, technological advancements allow me to do some of my work from the relative, detached comfort of my home. I find it is not dissimilar to work I had done in my workshop in London, bar, of course, the complete and utter lack of true scientific trailblazing.

I find comfort in the Bed and Breakfast’s or Warehouse’s libraries, where I satisfy my clients’ requirements by conducting all manners of research, which grants me the opportunity to systematically review the immense progress the world has made over the past few decades alone, not to mention a century, in both exact and social sciences.

Having settled into a routine in our artefact and handler relationship, Myka and I are tuned into a new harmony based on the mutually agreed understanding we reached in my kitchen, the understanding of the reciprocal nature of our investment in one another.

While we have not shared intimacies further, we seem to have reached an assent that a physical closeness is allowed. She is no longer a shadow behind my left shoulder. She is no longer just beyond my reach or just outside my field of vision.

Whenever we are out and about, she is near me; close enough that I can see her, sometimes close enough that I can feel her.

When spending time with the Warehouse team we find ourselves seated next to one another. When she returns to the Bed and Breakfast after a day’s work or a mission she may share a settee with me while reading.

It is rare, but not unprecedented, that when staying at my house, usually to accommodate early or late travel, we may be closer still; lean into or curl up to one another.

My yearning for her still burns, and on occasion it burns stronger than usual, but the ease we have grown into with one another alleviates it. I find I need not spend so much time convincing myself, certainly not to the extent I had done over the first few months of my assignment to her care.

There are times, however, when she surprises me with a joke or an outfit or her confidence and she leaves me utterly breathless. And while a few months ago I would have been frustrated with the anticipation for I knew not how any of it would end, she gives me enough of her trust to pay her in kind – to trust her that my patience will be rewarded.

I may be presented with an opportunity to be rewarded sooner than I think, when I am invited to a corporate event one of my clients throws for its executives. This sends Myka and me to Seattle for an extended weekend in a luxurious hotel.

Before heading there, Myka reviews the protocols with me and gives me a number of documents that detail security measures for the event.

When she checks us in, she requests adjoining rooms and to have the doors between them open. The concierge comes with us, to ensure the setup meets her specifications. When he leaves, she inspects both rooms thoroughly. “Take your pick,” she says once she completes her sweep.

“I’ll go next door, shall I?” I say and point across the doorway.

She nods with a smile.

She follows me towards the doorway but doesn’t cross it. She tucks her hands in her back pockets, leans casually against the frame and follows me with her relentless stare. I turn to tend to my suitcase.

“So…” she thinks out loud, and I look towards her, “I’ll keep it unlocked, but I’ll shut it, so you can have all the privacy you need,” her eyes catch mine. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I smile at her.

“I’ll be right over here if you need me,” she points towards the room she is in.

I nod my agreement and return to unpacking my things. From what I can tell, she does not move from the doorway.

“What time do you want to head downstairs?” she asks after a while, her eyes are clinging to me.

“Half seven?” I do my best to guess a reasonable time that would not appear eager on one hand, or rude on the other.

She chortles. “Fashionably late, Helena Wells?” she cocks a grin and her eyes sparkle.

“Anything wrong with that, Agent Bering?” I smile back at her.

“Not at all,” she shakes her head with a bright smile. “Not at all,” she pushes herself off of the frame and saunters into her own room. “I’ll give you a knock at 7:25,” she states as she softly closes the door between our rooms, behind her.

As I unzip my travel case I cannot help but replay this exchange in my mind, enjoy the flirtatious tone of it. As enjoyable as it is to be comfortably teasing one another, I have little time to bask. I was never invited to an event such as this and am unsure of what is actually required or expected of me.

As such, I must prepare myself for all eventualities, which means I have a little over three hours to rest, review my work with this client and make myself presentable for an evening of what I reckon will be hard, hard work.

No time to dawdle, then. I unpack my suitcase, two notebooks’ worth of notes, my tablet and my outfit for the evening. Once clothes have been aired and straightened, I settle with my afternoon’s work.

As promised, and unbelievably prompt, Myka knocks at 7:25, almost to the second. I open the door to be greeted by a vision. She is stunning. Simply stunning. By “simply” I do mean “simply”. There is nothing complicated about her appearance: her dress is the very definition of understated simplicity. Matt black and slick, with smooth, straight lines and not an inch of unnecessary fabric, or an ounce of unnecessary adornments. Her shoes follow the same theme – simple yet effective in accentuating her long legs and the curve of her calves. Her hair is held up by a simple, brown band and a handful of bobby pins keep wayward curls in check. Her face dons minimal makeup: some eyeliner, some mascara, a hint of lip gloss. I’m uncertain whether the blush in her cheeks is artificial. She does blush so well and so easily.

And yet, while there is nothing complicated about her, she is absolutely breath-taking. So much so that I find I need to remind myself to blink and breathe as I etch to memory every detail of her as she stands in my doorway. Thankfully, she is preoccupied by her duties, ensuring the hallway is empty and secure and thus entirely misses my shameless gawking.

When she turns towards me she smiles briefly, but her smile falls from her lips very quickly. I reckon her response to my appearance is similar to my response to hers. She eyes me, head to toe to head, her lips parted slightly. I’m wearing a tuxedo designed and fitted for a female form. A tailored jacked buttoned at my waist, hugging my frame comfortably, black silk trims extenuating the lapels and ends of the sleeves. Underneath is an ivory coloured, high-collar shirt, liberally unbuttoned, revealing my chest. Black trousers cling to my waist and hips, and loosen slightly as they flow down, to fit my shape without being skin tight. They end just below my ankles where they are met with high shine, black stilettos.

I smirk, and she notices. She licks her bottom lip and smiles again. “Ready?” she steps aside gesturing me to lead the way. I walk out while keeping her gaze in mine, until I walk past her and towards the elevators.

She joins me and calls the elevator. We stand next to each other, stealing glances, wetting our lips.

“Agent Bering,” I say, formally, turning my head to her.

“Yes, Ms. Wells?” she straightens her shoulders and raises her chin, her eyes fixed forward.

“Might I suggest you review the ground rules for this evening with me?”

She looks at me, quirking an eyebrow and half a smile. “If you wish.”

 

///   ///

 

I’m _so_ relieved I didn’t go to law school.

If I’d gone to law school, I probably would’ve found myself having to schmooze my way around these events all the time. I don’t think I could bear it.

Thankfully, I have Helena to mind, so this is a lot closer to being on the President’s security detail. I don’t need to play nice with anyone. I just need to keep an eye on her and the room.

The evening starts with a cocktail mingle thing. The guy who hired Helena finds her almost immediately and practically commandeers her – wraps his arm around her and parades her around the room, introducing her to the people with the most expensive shoes and watches.

She looks back at me occasionally, checking I’m where I said I’d be which is always no more than twelve feet away and always maintaining direct eye contact with her.

It’s good. She’s sticking to the instructions I gave her.

These types of events are a nightmare to secure. There are too many people and it’s practically chaos. With the President there would be a team of us. Probably six in a room this size, plus another eight standing by – at least.

But it’s just me here. Me and her.

Well… Me and her and 200 business executives who are getting drunker by the minute.

In the two hours they dilute their bloodstream with pricey cocktails and champagne, I’m handed the phone numbers of eight men and six women. A seventh woman gives me her room key.

If this was a completely different time, I may have kept some. But I have an agenda today. I have more than one, actually. But until this evening is done with, until Helena is back in her room upstairs, the professional agenda overrides everything else.

When dinner starts, Helena’s client makes sure she sits next to him. She doesn’t look comfortable – he’s quite drunk, or pretends to be, and he allows himself to be even more all-over her than he was before.

The next time she looks at me I pull my hand to smooth my hair over to my ear, where I give it two gentle tugs – a reminder of our agreed signal for me to remove her. She shakes her head ever so subtly, letting me know she’s okay for now, that she’s willing to play the corporate game for a little while longer.

I find it hard, at this point, to not let the other agenda surface for a few seconds at a time because I can’t help but be mesmerized by her: the way she holds a conversation, the level of interest she takes. How her eyes change shape, the way her lips form words and sentences or just smile. She’s so smooth, such a savant. It’s ridiculous. Every single person around that table is in love with her, I’m sure of it.

By the time they get to dessert, the back-patting ceremony starts and I’m surprised any of them can stand up straight, let alone read out a speech.

The first time Helena’s client lets go of her this evening is when he’s called to the stage to accept an award. He’s quite kind and eloquent at his drunken state and he gives Helena a lot of credit from the podium, and she gets a round of applause.

On his mark, a tall, buff looking guy from two tables over approaches her. He’s holding something, but keeps it hidden just behind his thigh. I take a cautious step forward and tighten my fists behind me – just in case – and he reveals a bottle of wine which he hands to her.

She’s gracious, if a bit forced in her gratitude to him, and he leans in to kiss her. She turns, so he could get her cheek, but he manoeuvres around her, lands directly on her lips and then puts his arm around her waist.

She doesn’t look like she approves.

My heartbeat quickens as I measure up the buff guy: he’s 6’6”, probably 220 pounds. From how he is standing and from what he looked like when he walked over, I think his right knee is injured. By the speed of his blinks I reckon he’s wearing contacts. I can definitely take him.

I take another step so I can regain eye contact with Helena.

The way he has his arm around her and the fact she’s holding a bottle make her movements a little awkward, but she smooths her hair and then reaches under it. I can’t tell for sure if she’s reaching for her ear, but I’m not taking any chances.

I walk the remaining three steps between us and grip the man’s wrist, the one that’s by her hip. “Excuse me,” I enunciate quietly and get his attention, “I’m afraid Ms. Wells is needed,” I speak in a low authoritative voice. I might as well be holding up a gun.

He winces at tightness of my grip and tries to pull his hand away but I don’t let him. Instead I slowly remove his hand from her and she is free to walk away. She turns to thank him for the wine. I let go of his wrist and take my post next to her.

Her client, having just come off the stage, rushes towards her.

“You’re not leaving already?” he laughs as he speaks. Christ, his breath can strip paint.

“I’m afraid duty calls,” she apologises and extends her hand for a polite shake.

He takes her hand first, then pulls her in for a hug.

I clear my throat purposefully and he lets go of her. I give the both of them a steeled smile and nudge towards an exit.

He leans in and whispers – or thinks he whispers – because I can hear every word he says, “I should’ve planned to keep your guard dog distracted.”

“I doubt you would have succeeded,” she looks at me, “she’s quite good at her job.”

He laughs. “Every dog has a favourite toy,” then looks at me, “it’s just a matter of finding it.”

I take a deep breath and think whether this is worth my time. I decide it isn’t. I just really want to get out of here – for my sake as much as Helena’s.

Helena smiles a soft smile and chances a sideways glance towards me. “Good night, Gordon,” she smiles at him, “and thank you for having me.”

“Any time, Ms. Wells!” he booms, “Any time!” and – thankfully – someone comes over to give his ego a cuddle.

I usher Helena out through the nearest exit and stay close to her, hand hovering behind her back, keeping her at pace, checking behind us occasionally until we reach the elevators.

We’re both silent while we wait. Once we’re in and the doors close, I hear her exhale loudly.

“That was taxing,” she states.

“Hmmm,” I nod, but ‘taxing’ isn’t the word I’d choose to describe this evening. ‘Painful’ would be one. Possibly even ‘degrading’. But I’m reserving judgement.

“Myka,” she turns to face me, and there is a flutter in my chest with the look in her eyes and my name, how she says it. “May I offer you an apology?”

I’ve been called worse by more powerful people. I’ve been called worse by people I’ve actually cared about. I don’t want her to apologise. I don’t even want him to apologise. I’ll be happy if I never see him again. So I shake my head.

“I want to apologise,” she says as the elevator stops, “You are not my guard dog,” she finishes and walks out.

“I appreciate that,” I get my room key out. “Apology accepted.”

We enter my room and ask her to wait inside, by the door, until I clear it. Once my room is clear, I close the door behind her and go to sweep her room. Now that the primary agenda is completed – Helena is safely in her room – the _other_ agenda is going to rush in.

It would have been nice to stay up and read or talk. We have a stunning view of downtown Seattle from our rooms. But I’m not sure she’s up to it, so I opt to stay professional. I hold the door open for her to walk across. “Good night, Helena.”

She walks towards me and inspects the bottle. “Fancy a quick drink before tucking in?”

 

///   ///

 

It is a 1989 Cheval Blanc Boudreaux. A bold and broody red with a hefty price tag. Hardly the type of drink to indulge in as a night cap, but it is a reward.

And one I would like to share with her.

Her lips break into a smile at my question and it is like every aspect of her softens in an instant. “Sure,” and she is no longer Agent Bering, no longer my handler. She’s Myka. How fascinating it is to see the transformation – such a simple and quick change. She looks the same, and yet…

I smile back at her and invite her into my room, where I uncork the bottle and pour the wine into the tumblers on the desk. I know deep within me it is a sin to drink this wine out of tumblers, but it will have to do. I hand her one and pick the other – hold it up to make a toast. “To being good at your job,” I say with a smile.

Her smile widens, I have no doubt she associates my words with the compliment I gave her earlier in the hope of diffusing Gordon’s insult. “To being good at our jobs,” she echoes and clinks our tumblers, and takes a sip.

It is a strong wine, robust and full of flavour. Although it is meant to breathe before accompanying a meal, it serves a beautiful change of tempo from the rest of the day – the airport rush, the preparation, the do.

“I’m not really a wine person,” she hums and takes another sip, “but I get why people like this stuff,” she holds the tumbler up to the light and inspects the dark burgundy liquid. “You definitely get what you pay for when it comes to wine.”

I laugh lightly, “Indeed,” her holding the glass to the light and the taste of it reminds me of an incident in London, long ago.

 

_Charles is the one invited to social gatherings, being the face of the literary success that is HG Wells. I do not particularly mind – I do not need the heady, lavish settings of a Victorian party to satisfy my senses. If anything, I find such parties stifling, governed by the rules of the upper classes and their rigid decorum, a fact that makes them all the duller._

_My brother is kind and vain in equal measures to always insist that I join him, and join him I do, unless Warehouse duties call. In this case, they just so happened to align perfectly._

_Caturanga and I have been listening to whispers for months now, seeking the whereabouts of a young man who tells tales of historical events as if he had been present in their times, to level of detail one would only know if one were actually there._

_From what we hear, the young man had made references in his tall tales to a cave of endless wonders, one that transcends monarchy and government, one that has lived through the ages and the empires. So when we hear that the young man’s whereabouts have been traced to a house in sleepy Chelsea, it was only a matter of time before I made an appearance there._

_The house in question is that of a young wordsmith and thinker, a member of the Aesthetics movement, by the name of Wilde. A published poet, an established journalist and editor also known to have rather a flare for a good party._

_When an invitation to his household lands with Charles, I am – for one – delighted to join him._

_“Keen to duel with a literary fellow?” Charles jokes in the carriage on the way to Mr. Wilde’s residence at my apparent zeal to attend this gathering._

_“Perhaps,” I smile devilishly, “and perhaps I am keen to engage in deep conversations with the women south of the Thames,” I return a jab with a straight face._

_“Heavens, Helena,” he chides me, then leans in to deliver sound, brotherly advice, “you must be careful when talking about such things.”_

_I huff silently at his concern, “You would not know the half of it, dear brother, if it came by your smoking club and drained your whiskey.”_

_“Just remember that we have an appearance to maintain,” he hisses quietly._

_As much as I hate to admit it, he is correct. The time and place in which we live do not take kindly to a woman of my ilk: independent, educated, free thinking, outspoken, unafraid and unashamed._

_Perhaps in the future, I indulge in some fanciful thinking, the same fanciful thinking that inspires my inventions, women of my ilk will not be burdened with the need to maintain a façade. Oh, the wonders such future must hold._

_Mr. Wilde’s party turns out to be almost as dull as any other, until all figures of authority and propriety vanish post customary cigar-and-digestif. It is then that a young man makes his appearance._

_He could not be more than 21, I think to myself. His features are crisp and bright, his skin soft and glistening in the gas light. His laughter invigorating, full of life and joy. I am not the only one mesmerised by him – every man and woman in Mr. Wilde’s parlour is captivated by this young man’s shimmering presence._

_The young man’s accent does not strictly tell his origins: he is well spoken and well read, but his diction suggests he was not raised in England, or Britain for that matter. There is a hint of a Teutonic drawl to his speech, yet his looks are Scandinavian, if not Prussian._

_I would like to learn more about him or at the very least, how he had come here, so I follow Mr. Wilde when he leaves the room to fetch more drink for his party._

_“Mr. Wilde,” I walk up hastily behind him, “I am Helena Wells, Charles Wells’ sister.”_

_“Pleased to meet you,” he turns to greet me politely with a slight bow of the head, as society prescribes, “I do beg your pardon, however, I must tend to an urgent matter,” he is quick to say and then turns to walk to the rear of the house, into a kitchen. I follow him in, where I observe him lifting a small trap door at the far end of the room._

_He then settles on his knees and rummages in a small cavity hidden underneath the trap door he had lifted. I cannot help but smile and relax my posture, for whatever it is he is doing is utterly unbecoming of a man of his stature. Mr. Wilde, it would appear, is not at all what he appears to be._

_It is a well-kept secret between the rouges of society, a way of telling one from the other simply by looking, by noticing such subtleties. My instincts and observations are yet to have failed me so far, and I decide to act._

_I step into the kitchen and make my presence known. “I was wondering if you would be so kind, Mr. Wilde, as to answer a question or two I have about your guest of honour.”_

_He looks up at me and smiles. “Are you taken with Tomash?”_

_A Slavic name makes perfect sense. “I have heard great many a thing about him.”_

_“Wait one moment, if you please,” he says, and returns to the pit in his floor. He yanks one, two, three, four bottles of wine from underneath his kitchen floor, then pushes himself up. He dusts his hands quickly and turns to uncork all four bottles._

_“Miss Wells,” he eyes me with a mischievous glint, “would you care for some wine?”_

_“Helena, please,” I smile at him, “I would love some.”_

_“If you go by Helena, I must go by Oscar,” he fills two small glass half way and places one in front of me, “are we so daringly radical for such familiarity?”_

_I chuckle, “More than we possibly care to candidly attest to,” I pick the glass up._

_Over the coming two hours, Oscar teaches me the science of the red wines of south of France. How to differentiate between their colours and hues; how to discern the subtle differences in their viscosity and the presence of particulates; how to distinguish their tastes and scents. All the while, answering my questions about Tomash – who came out of nowhere, it would seem, carrying not much but a small sack and the clothes on his back._

_Oscar dubbed him a travelling man of conundrums and suggested that his soul is older than his appearance. When I challenged him about this observation, he giggles. “He is terribly superstitious,” he attempt to keep a straight face but cannot._

_“How come,” I, too, struggle to keep my faculties about me._

_“He appears attached to some old objects, yet would not touch or move others for fear of outraging their spirits,” the shift in his tonality suggest a hint of mockery which quickly grows into a short fit of laughter._

_I try hard to contain my own laughter – seeing a man of his size and eloquence succumb to such silliness makes me believe there is hope to the Empire yet, and in my state of reduced inhibitions laughter is all but extremely contagious. “Suppose I told you his superstition is well placed?”_

_“Oh, pray tell, Helena!” his reaches towards me, “Do you know the spirit of the old grandfather clock in the hallway?”_

_“Don’t be silly,” I place my hand on his. “That clock has nothing special about it.” I push myself backwards a bit, to test my sense of balance. “But show me his sack, and shall tell you what spirit it contains.”_

_Emboldened by my challenge, he takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to the small room Tomash occupies. The small sack Oscar mentioned is nowhere to be seen. While he searches in the obvious places – drawers, beddings and furniture, I tap floorboards and wall panels until one budges all too freely. I remove the loose panel to expose a burlap satchel roughly the size of a King James V bible snugly tucked amongst the bones of the house._

_A bright smile stretches across my face as I pull it from its boarded nest. I look in, reach for my Warehouse-issued handkerchief and very gently use it pull out an object._

_Oscar rushes over to look._

_It is a small drawing in old oils, the pigments are faded and broken, damaged by water and mildew and rot. There is an image of a man behind the cracked paint, no, it is not quite a man. It is a skull. It is rather macabre and quite hideous._

_He reaches his hand to the painting._

_“Do not touch the paints,” I warn him._

_“Why ever not?”_

_I pull the painting away from his outstretched fingers and hold it up. “Will you consider a fantastical story in which a man’s spirit is caught by paint so that his body can continue living forever?” I think aloud as I inspect the details of the grotesque image._

_His jaw drops, he tilts his head slightly to the left and he relaxes his eyes._

_“I suppose I could,” he indulges me, “that would make a beautiful story of a man who defies nature. Defies time.”_

_I huff. “I have been thinking about defying time as well, Oscar,” I admit. “But this,” I place the painting back in the sack, “is a dangerous means of travelling through it, and a costly one, too.”_

_He continues to ask me questions and I continue to answer them vaguely while I secure the curiosity to the underside of my skirt, tidy Tomash’s room and walk back downstairs._

_While we wait for Charles and our carriage by the front door Oscar asks if I intend to return the painting to the man of conundrums._

_“Tell Tomash to come seek me on Burleigh Street when he wishes to retrieve his portrait. I will ensure its safekeeping in the meantime.”_

_“Would you allow me to tell his story?” he asks as Charles joins us._

_“I trust your good judgement and your wisdom, Mr. Wilde,” I courtesy, as society prescribes._

_He bows his head. “Good luck in your endeavours, Miss Wells, Mr. Wells,” he bids us farewell, as society prescribes._

_We exchange a short, familiar smile before Charles helps me to the carriage, without knowing a thing of what had occurred that night._

 

The next day I fell ill and spent a number of the morning throwing up. At the time, Charles and the housekeeping staff thought this was caused by the excesses of the previous night and I did not think to the contrary.

It was not until a three months later that the real reason for my sickness had become apparent.

My eyes glaze with thin tears, veils of memories of a time I nearly forgot, a time so foreign to me to now.

“Hey,” Myka breathes and she leans towards me, her fingers touch my shoulder and glide down it. They spread warmth where they touch. Her green eyes smile softly, “are you okay?”

I close my eyes to freshen them, then turn to her with a brilliant smile. “Have I ever told you of how I befriended Oscar Wilde?”

She cocks a questioning eyebrow and shakes her head. I gesture for her to sit on the armchair by the foot of the bed and I settle on the bed’s corner, in front of her, and tell her the story behind The Picture of Dorian Gray.

I choose to omit my illness-come-pregnancy.

“You are just unbelievable,” a slightly dopey smile graces her lips, a mix of tiredness and good wine, I assume.

“Unbelievable I may be,” I declare and empty the last of the bottle into both our glasses, “but I told you no word of a lie tonight, Agent Bering.”

She huffs a short laugh and looks at me. Her eyes darken, shift from moss to emerald, like they did that evening in my kitchen.

“What is it?” I would like to discern what it was that caused her mood to alter.

“It’s the way you…” she stops herself, shakes her head and looks down.

“The way I what?” I press her, move to the edge of the bed and reach to touch her knee.

She sighs in defeat. I cannot believe it took so little to defeat her. It must be the wine. “The way you say my name,” she answers coyly and looks down.

It is uncanny that she detects the different way in which I speak it, for I hardly detect that difference myself. I do, however, detect the slight churn at the pit of my stomach every time her name falls from my lips.

She need not look up to see the air between us thicken, she need not look into my eyes to fathom me, unravel me, to make me lightheaded. It is her, not the wine. I know it.

I let my fingers firm around her knee as I slide them up, so my palm rests fully on her. “Myka,” I whisper a request.

“Yes.” Her answer sounds as though she is willing to make true my wish even though I am yet to speak it.

I need to be certain before allowing my want to consume us. I dare not disturb our peaceful balance with a bold assumption. “May I kiss—“

“Yes,” she responds without hesitation, lifts her head and rests her hand atop mine on her knee.

With fluidity and strength of movement I did not believe myself capable of at this moment, I lean forward, place my lips on hers to taste the intoxicating tastes of wine and of her.

I missed her so. I sigh into the kiss, and without fully realising, I shift my head slightly as I get up from the edge of the bed and lean further into her. Her mouth falls open to me, and mine mirrors hers and her tongue caresses my lips as they slip into the kiss.

Firm fingers reach to the nape of my neck and press insistently, so I cannot move away. I can only move with.

Then her fingers slide down my neck to my shoulder and I miss the pressure and heat with which they flavoured the kiss, but they travel down my side, to my waist and further down still, until they reach the curve of my hip and she pulls me into her lap.

As I fall into her embrace, our lips part for a brief moment. I sigh her name and the churn at the pit of my stomach is no longer a slight tug – it is a pull, a jerk, a violent wrench of my insides – overcome only by the sensation of her left hand travelling back up my side to the edge of my jaw, and her right gliding up my arm to rest on my chest.

She pulls me in again for a searing kiss, a kiss the likes of which we are yet to share.


	4. Winter (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (still seven months in; the morning after the night before)
> 
> " “Am I allowed to partake in such dangerous undertakings?” she looks at me, and for a split second I’m not sure whether she talks about us touching each other or going out on Warehouse business. "

The Farnsworth wakes me up. I moan and try to ignore it, because it feels like I’ve only fallen asleep about an hour ago.

I pick my phone up – it’s 4:36am. I did fall asleep about an hour ago.

“Oh, Crap,” I groan at how heavy my head feels and reach for the night light, then the Farnsworth. I rub my eyes, run quick fingers through my hair and crack it open. “Yeah.”

I see Artie’s face, but hear Claudia’s voice. “I told him not to call yet!”

“Good morning,” it’s so great to be huffed at by Artie so early in the morning.

“Yeah,” I repeat.

“I take it you’ve just woken up?” there is a hint of disapproval in his voice.

“Just,” I’m not in the mood to be reprimanded.

“There’s a ping not far from you,” he says, “I need you to go pick up an artefact.”

“Artie,” I sigh, letting my brain fully load, “Do you know what time it is?”

He looks at his watch, “Nearly 7,” he says, “5, for you,” he adds. “This is an interesting one, so better get in as early as you can.”

“I’m with Helena, I can’t take her on a retrieval,” I’m just about able to make the point that taking her on a mission isn’t a good idea.

“Ah,” Artie exclaims and reaches behind him for a file, “she can actually help you on this one,” he opens it and holds up hand-drawn portraits of two men. They look late 18th, early 19th century by drawing technique and apparel. “These are William Burke and William Hare who were convicted of a string of murders in the 1830s.”

My phone buzzes. I pick it up – it’s a text message from Claud:

“With Helena as in *with* Helena?”

Artie continues, oblivious. “They lured their victims their homes, got them drunk, suffocated them and sold their bodies to an Anatomy professor, ferrying them across Edinburgh in a tea chest.”

I send her a response:

“No.”

“Their prosecution documents list 16 known victims, including a woman and her grandchild visiting Edinburgh from the highlands, as well as a bunch of honest, hard-working people.”

Then I send another text:

“Maybe. A little.”

“I think that someone in Walla Walla, Washington, has the glass Burke and Hare used to ply their victims with alcohol in because there are reports of people waking up after parties with memories of being suffocated and stuffed in a chests.”

I cringe at the thought of waking up from that kind of dream. “How do we even know that? That hardly sounds like news outlet material,” I ask distractedly, because my phone buzzes again with another message from Claud:

“Oh. My. God. Finally! Spill some beans, girlfriend!”

“You have Claudia to thank for that,” I supress a smile given the text I just got, “she was testing a new algorithm she designed to detect, err…” he closes his eyes trying to collect a name he doesn’t quite remember or a fact he doesn’t quite understand. He does that a lot with things Claudia’s responsible for. “…tumbling trends.”

“Tumblr trends,” Claudia corrects him, grabs the Farnsworth from him and she has a great, big smile slapped on her face. “Tumblr,” she repeats. “I wrote this algorithm that searches under-the-radar trends I set up to match keywords that dominate our Most Wanted list in social media. This particular lead came from Tumblr.”

My phone buzzes again – this time it’s an email from Claud.

“I just emailed you all the fun factoids about the Whacking Williams and the Tumblr posts from Walla Walla, Washington. That’s a lot of W’s.”

“Thanks,” I smile at her, already distracted as I scan the documents she sent. “I still don’t think taking Helena is a good idea,” I scratch the back of my neck as my mind start putting all the facts together. “Walla Walla is, what, 4 hours away?”

“Yes,” Artie says and Claudia nods.

“Pete or Steve can fly to Tacoma, and we all get there together –“ my suggestion is cut short.

“Don’t you think I already considered the options?” Artie grumps.

“They’re in Louisiana, tracking a hunting rifle that fires homing bullets,” Claudia explains and we share a wince.

“Does Mrs. Frederic know? Do we need to let her know?” I ask Claudia. “I don’t know how this is supposed to work.”

“She knows,” Claudia steps out of Artie’s office, I can tell by the background. “You’re cleared for the mission, double Ophelia seven.” She checks there’s no one behind her and leans in. “Now spill.”

I can feel my cheeks burning. I want to tell her, I really do. I know she’s on my side on this, but it sounds so stupid in my head: Helena and I made out.

“You’re adorable when you squirm, Myka,” she laughs at me, “totally knocks your badassery score.”

I glare back at her. “We kissed, okay?” I whisper.

“And?”

“And… nothing.” I’m a bit flustered with where this is headed. “What do you take me for?”

“Uh,” she puts on her smart-ass face, “a frustrated woman who finally has a chance to get it on with the person she’s been in love with for, like, eight years?”

I sigh heavily. “You know it’s not like that.”

“I don’t know _what_ it’s like, but I’m rootin’ for ya,” she smiles.

“Can’t you come here and mind her in the hotel while I go to Walla Walla?”

She shakes her head. “We’re having a massive system upgrade today and if I leave Artie alone with it, bad things will happen. Besides, you know you are better off having a second bod in the field, Agent Bering,” she says my name with a British accent, “even if that bod is smokin’ hot and is next to you in bed right now.”

“Will you ever stop?” I hold the Farnsworth up to the room to show her I’m alone. “HG is next door.”

“I will stop when there is conclusive evidence about you two,” she smirks, “when the votes have been counted and verified.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll talk to you about this when we’re back.”

“You betcha,” she’s beaming again.

“I’ll be in touch,” I smile back, because I can’t not smile when Claud smiles.

“Later, Myka.”

And the call ends.

I get up from the bed and start stretching. My mind is a mess of stuff – facts about Burke and Hare, incapacitating alcohol, Oscar Wilde and French wine, Tumblr posts of college students, securing Helena on a mission and Helena. Just Helena.

Everything stops in my head for a moment when I think about last night. Or this morning. It was early this morning, technically.

My heart beats faster as my mind recalls images of her. Images of her neckline as I brushed her hair aside to kiss it. Images of the soft dip behind her ear and how it blushed when my fingers coaxed her to tilt her head so I could nip it. Images of her freckled chest, of the hollow behind her collar bone, of her lips, of her eyes. Images of her, full of want, of yearning, of peace.

And possibly something else.

I’m not sure I’m ready to call it by name. I’m not sure it is what I think it is.

But there’s a mission now, so I focus. I start stretching again and concentrate on putting a plan together. One for the retrieval and one for Helena.

After about 10 minutes’ worth of planning, I walk over to the door to Helena’s room and knock.

“Helena,” I speak softly to the door, “I’m sorry, I know it’s early, but we need to get going.”

There’s no sound coming from her room. I knock again.

“Helena?” I reach for the handle, but the door swings open just before I reach it.

“What?” she stands in the door, wearing a dressing gown. She looks like she’s just woken up, and I’m turned on and completely smitten at the same time. She’s adorably crabby, and must have slept on the crease of the pillow, because there is a line stamped across her cheek. She’s also ravishing without a drop of makeup on and with her hair is a little bit messed. Her body radiates heat. I feel it from three feet away.

The first instinct my mind comes up with is to sweep her up and kiss her.

I cough and look down instead. “I, uh,” I clear my throat, “I got a call from Artie,” I look at her briefly and I know I’m blushing, so I look back down. “Looks like you and I get to save the world again.” I smile briefly.

“It is barely five o’clock in the morning,” is she whining? “Can it not wait until, say, the sun has risen?” She’s cute when she’s whining.

“I’m so sorry,” I look at her and my right hand just comes up to caress her cheek, my thumb smoothing where the pillow left its mark on her; like it’s okay to touch her like this, like we’ve always touched like this.

Her dismayed frown melts away and she grins, moving along to my touch for a second, and her left hand reaches for my hip and squeezes it softly like it’s the most natural thing to do, like she’s always done it.

“Am I allowed to partake in such dangerous undertakings?” she looks at me, and for a split second I’m not sure whether she talks about us touching each other or going out on Warehouse business.

“Yes, apparently,” I answer both with a sigh that’s supposed to push away all the thoughts I have running through my mind, because we don’t have time for any of them. We have mission that I _really_ want to be over already. I give her cheek a final brush and let my hand fall.

“Right,” she pulls away and straightens. “May I have ten minutes to ready myself for the service of the Warehouse?”

“Ten minutes,” I add with an authoritative glance from above a smile.

She smiles with an arched brow and closes the door.

I take a quick shower, get dressed and pack up. I’m ready for her in just under 10 minutes. I’ve spent most of the time not thinking about her, or about us because it’s confusing and demanding and we need to get that damn glass first.

Securing an artefact while securing an artefact: I make a mental list of the questions I need to ask Helena about how she wants to go about all this, I consider what the red lines are, the lines we shouldn’t cross to make sure she stays safe. This will be the most involved breakfast briefing we’ve ever had.

She walks into my room with her suit bag and her suitcase, dressed for a mission – a slightly crumpled button-up tucked into a pair of jeans with ankle-high boots. Her hair is held back in a loose ponytail. “Shall we?” she asks.

I put my coat on and pick up my suitcase. “Sure.”

We get coffees and bear claws on the way – it’s a terrible way to start the day, but both of us are tired and a little hungover and the caffeine and sugar will keep us going.

As the drive goes on, we agree how this is going to work. We’re on the same page on most things, with one exception: Helena following my orders. In this respect, she’s not a team player and her disregard for authority is a pain in my ass.

“Helena, please,” I ask, or beg, actually, because I’m tired and anxious and the last thing I want right now is to argue.

“You know I am perfectly capable, Myka,” she insists, “and you know that my freedom in the field can be of great value.”

“Ugh,” I groan, “I know _just_ how capable you are, but I need you trust me to keep you safe.”

“Why am I not trusted to keep myself safe? Why do I still receive this resounding vote of non-confidence?” she sounds quite angry.

“It isn’t a vote of anything, it’s just me, okay?” I need to explain this in a different way because my logic and protocol don’t seem to be working. I take a deep breath. “I’m very nervous that you’re coming on a retrieval with me. And while I know you are perfectly able to take care of yourself, I’m the one who’s responsible for you. Me.”

She starts to counter my argument, but I hold my right hand up to ask her to stop, because I’m not finished.

“I feel responsible for you not just because you’re an artefact and I’m your handler, Helena,” I look at her for a split second, then look back on the road. “I feel responsible for you as a friend…” I want to say something else, but I don’t think I can, “… and as a person I care deeply for.” I put my hand back down on the gearstick.

She looks at me – I can see from the corner of my eye – she’s concentrating. The silence in the car is tenser than it’s been in a while. I’m guessing last night may have something to do with it, but this isn’t the time to discuss last night, or a few months ago in her kitchen, so I keep quiet. I’m focusing on the mission. We can discuss ‘us’ afterwards. Or later. At some point.

“I care deeply for you as well,” she says eventually.

“Are we agreeing about taking point?” I divert the conversation back to where it started.

She falls silent again. I bet she’s trying not to argue. “How will I know you’ve dispensed an order with which I am not to argue as opposed to a request I may negotiate?”

I dart a cold, unamused glance at her.

She gets it. “I see.”

We’re quiet again, but this silence is less tense than before.

“Do not think this a victory, Agent Bering,” she says, looking out the window, “I am granting you temporary allowance, and do not even consider making a habit of it.”

I smile and roll my eyes.

 

We arrive at Walla Walla just after 10am and start questioning the locals and the students whose blogs came up on Claudia’s algorithm. We pinpoint contamination to five separate parties, in three separate nights, all over town.

It takes a bit more work and a change of interrogation tactics (Helena isn’t an agent, so it’s easier for kids to talk to her about illegal stuff) to find out that all the people who with the weird dreams smoked pot on the nights in question. And as it turns out, they all got it from the same person.

By mid-afternoon we find ourselves outside the door of the distributor, a William Brightman. I’m taking a good look at the house he’s meant to be in. The curtains on all the windows are drawn shut and heat is leaking from the roof. There are odd pipes and cables running into and across windows.

“I think this guy’s a grower too, not just a distributor,” I mutter.

“A renaissance man,” Helena agrees.

I unbutton my jacket and pull it behind my weapon. “This would be a time where I’d ask you to assume that everything I say is a non-negotiable order,” I unclasp the holster of my gun and rest my right hand on it.

She nods.

“Yes?” I give her a stern look.

“Yes.” She answers, and we walk up the porch to knock on the door.

A guy in his late 30s opens the door. I explain that we’re not here about the cannabis, that we don’t care whether he’s a licensed grower, that we’re here for something else that we think is hurting people, something he uses to grow his crop with, something dangerous.

He looks at us sceptically but lets us in. At a glance, his outfit is very impressive. Judging by the equipment, he may as well be a licensed grower, but small-scale. There is nothing unusual about the kit he uses, no sign of a glass or a tumbler. Everything he uses is plastic.

Helena draws my attention and points in the direction of a poor attempt at hiding a door: a lamp and a reading chair placed strategically in front of a plain, flat door, painted the same colour as the wall.

“Do you want to open it, or should I?” I look at him. He is really nervous now – I can tell by his pulse, how fast he’s breathing, a twitch he has in his left eye and how he’s fidgeting with his hands.

I walk towards the reading chair and push out of the way when I hear a rustle and a yelp from behind me. I pull my gun out as I turn around, “Don’t do anything stupid, Mr. Brightman,” but he’s opted for the stupidest thing possible.

He’s got a gun tucked under Helena’s chin.

I take a deep breath. “You don’t need to do this,” I speak calmly and clearly, “we’re only looking for the glass,” I look into his eyes, then Helena’s, then inch towards them, “there’s no need to get all…” I make sure Helena catches my eye, “ _ringtone-y_ about it…” Helena blinks an understanding.

He loosens his grip of both Helena and the gun for a split second, and that’s all it takes for me to lunge forward, remove the gun, and for Helena to reverse their positions and knock him unconscious with a single blow to the back of his neck.

I do up the gun’s safety and we share a semi-victorious smile.

“Well played, Agent Bering,” she smiles.

“And you, Ms. Wells,” I smile back as we walk up to the door and open it. Behind it is something different altogether. It looks like a lab rather than a greenhouse. It’s a much smaller room, with only two dozen plants in it. All the pipework is metal: brass or copper or aluminium.

“I would say Mr. Brightman is experimenting with naturally occurring corrosion and its impact on plant growth,” Helena says as she inspects the room.

I notice fertilizer. Lots of it. “I’m guessing that part of the experiment is tweaking naturally forming nitrates in the pipes,” I hold a bag up.

“Of course,” she says like it’s obvious, “binding nitrogen with potassium or sodium or manganese or nickel,” she weighs the options, “increasing the potency of the artificial fertiliser.”

I notice an open bag of fertiliser on a desk. Inside the bag is the oddest measuring cup. “I think we have our glass,” I pull out a purple glove with one hand and a static bag in the other. “Check on Brightman, will you?”

She walks out and back in. “He’s still away,” she comes over and inspects at the plain, scratched glass I pull out from the bag.

I drop it in the static bag, it sparks and I feel relieved, because we are nearly done here. Except…

I don’t get vibes the way Pete does, but sometimes I _just know_ when something’s not right. This is one of those times, so I look around the room. There is too much copper and brass here, and I just have to check with her - “Do you think there could be other artefacts here?”

“Possibly,” she sighs, “much of this equipment appears to be what artefacts usually look like.”

“Can you see anything obvious?” I ask her.

Mr. Brightman groans from the floor.

I give Helena the bag with the glass and signal her to follow me and we walk out of the lab. “Mr. Brightman,” I lean down to help him up as he rubs the back of his head, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to come outside with us,” I say.

“You said you weren’t interested in the weed. What gives?”

“Other than pointing a gun at my colleague here, your lab might be more dangerous than you realise,” I answer as I start to lead him towards the door.

“What are you gonna do with it?”

“We need to run some quick tests, to check for radiation.”

He nods. I always find it funny that people buy this. “Can I just grab my notes?”

“Sure,” I follow him closely as he walks to the coffee table where there are books and notepads scattered. He leans down, fiddles with them, drops his pencil behind the table and bends to picks it up, grabs some books and walks towards Helena. Then past her and out the front door.

Something definitely isn’t right. He was _in a hurry_ to get out of the house.

I turn to walk out, ushering Helena to walk in front of me when I notice it – a consistent, underlying hiss. It could be nothing, but it could also be _something_ , something _bad_ , and I don’t have time to calculate the possibilities.

“Get out and get down,” I urge Helena, almost yelling, pushing her forward with me as I start running.

We’re barely out the front door when the lab explodes behind us, the shockwave flattens me over her. The blast isn’t strong enough to tear through the windows, and there aren’t the usual impaired hearing and vision.

I push myself off of Helena, and she pushes herself off the ground. I start patting her down for damage, roughly at first, checking for broken bones or bleeding; and then more gently, checking for scrapes and bruises.

“I’m fine, Myka. I’m fine” she keeps saying, but I don’t stop until I’m finished.

“Can you stand up?” I pull myself up and hold my hand out to help her.

She makes a point of standing up on her own. “All’s well,” she smiles.

“The glass?”

She yanks the static bag out from the inside pocket of her jacket. Miraculously, it’s in one piece.

I look around and Brightman is gone.

I call the local LEOs and the Fire Department, then tell Artie what happened. He agrees we should wait and see if the local police clears the scene over the next few hours for us to take a second look at the lab.

But the LEOs _do_ have an issue with the cannabis so they call DEA and ATF because of the explosion. By 8pm the scene is a circus, Artie sends Claudia to Louisiana so that Steve could come here and work with his agency.

Helena and I are sent to settle down for a night before heading back to South Dakota.

 

We wind up at a Super 8 on the outskirts of town. By the time I clear the room all the adrenaline has dissipated and I’m running today in my head, over and over and over; the mantra is ‘You shouldn’t have taken her on a retrieval.’

I throw my stuff on the bed that’s closer to the windows. I’m not entirely comfortable with the room. I had to only take one, because the Super 8 is flooded in the alphabet soup that’s investigating William Brightman’s house.

We have a double, so we have a bed each, but there’s a distinct lack of space. Given last night, given this morning, given today and given how I feel right now… I would’ve preferred to not have to be so close to someone, and certainly not have that person be Helena.

Right now I need space to be angry. To sulk. And then space to analyse what happened today and work it out in my head so I can move on.

I’m so pissed off with myself right now, that I’m questioning my decision to stay here in one room, rather than to find someplace else that’ll have had two.

I’m so pissed off right now, that I’m questioning every single decision I made today, since that Farnsworth went off. I’m questioning decisions I made before that.

“Do you want to shower first?” I do my best not to let my frustration show.

She’s going through her suitcase, pulling out what she’ll need for tonight. “I reckon you need it more than I do,” she answers with a playful smile.

I take my jacked off, throw it on the chair and go to get my toiletries and PJs. I feel something behind me and I turn around with a start – it’s Helena, holding her hands up.

“You’re hurt,” she reaches for my shoulder and pushes me back around, so my back is turned to her.

She peels the sleeve of my t-shirt up and over my shoulder and I feel a sting as the material yanks at an open wound.

“Ow,” I exclaim, then hiss.

She pulls me over to the bathroom and arranges me in front of the mirror so I can see the damage. “It isn’t deep,” she examines it, “but we best clean it up”.

“It’s okay,” I pull away from her slightly, “I can probably do it on my own.” I’m not sure that I can, but this feels strange and I’m not done being angry with myself.

“You probably could,” she fills the sink with warm, soapy water, “the angle might be awkward,” she dips a towel in it, “so if you’ll allow me I would like to help you with it,” she seeks my permission through our reflections in the mirror.

I nod warily, making it clear I’m not entirely at ease with this.

She starts cleaning the wound and I bite the inside of my cheek because it burns. She then leaves me in the bathroom, so I push the door to, take my shirt off and start the shower. I inspect the graze in the mirror. Now that’s clean, it looks like I had a short run-in with asphalt at high speed. It must’ve been be a piece of debris from the explosion or something.

I’ve had much worse injuries than this. This one’s just messy more than anything.

The door to the bathroom opens and I jump back covering my front and midriff as best I can, on instinct.

Helena smirks, “Nothing I haven’t already seen, darling.”

I blush.

She places my PJs and toiletry bag by the sink, along with a fresh towel, some disinfectant and gauze. She then walks out. “Call me when you are done and decent, I’ll bandage it.”

I step in the shower and I can’t relax. I’m still thinking that today was a mistake and I’m so lucky it ended the way that it did, because a split second either way and it will have been a completely different evening.

I also wonder what will happen when my luck runs out.

I get out of the shower and put my shorts on. I try to put the gauze on myself, but my skin is too wet and the angle _is_ awkward, and I wind up cursing the wound or myself or the day or _something_. I wrap the towel around me and walk out. “Helena,” I say quietly, reluctantly, holding up the gauze.

She puts her notebook down, gets up from her bed and walks over. She turns me around to have the back of my arm under a better light and presses the flesh around it. “How about we let it dry for a few moments while I shower?”

I turn around and I face her. “Okay,” it comes out a bit breathy because I’ve given up on being resilient and she looks gorgeous and casual and relaxed. Not like she’s just narrowly escaped an explosion after having a gun pointed at her.

I switch on the TV and stare at the local news for a few minutes while she showers. It’s full of Brightman and his house, and it makes me angrier so I switch it off. When she comes out, she looks like she’s completely washed the day from her. She looks like she’s on vacation – hair wrapped in a towel, easy smile on her lips, dressing gown hanging open over a cotton tank-top and very short shorts. “Let’s have a look at you,” she releases her hair and walks over to my bed confidently.

I sit up and lean forward, giving her better access, pressing the towel to my chest. She sits behind me, places the first aid kit next to her and tends to the scratch with great care. She’s so gentle, I can barely feel what she’s doing.

When she’s finished, she places her palm on top of the bandage, pressing it into place for a few seconds. Then I feel her leaning forward, her dressing gown brushes against the small of back; then a drop of water falls below my shoulder blade, then her lips touch the top of my arm, just above where the bandage is.

My breath hitches.

She must’ve heard it, because her lips touch me again, wetter this time. And for longer.

In the two seconds that her lips are on me, I think that so many things could have happened differently today and we won’t have been here to do _this_. To feel _this_. And _this_ isn’t really enough because I want more. I want her. I’ve wanted her for so long.

I also know that it’s wrong do to _this_ now, because _this_ is amplified by the emotional recoil from a near-death situation and how angry I am for putting her in danger.

But _right now_ I don’t care.

I turn around, still holding the towel to my chest and lean towards her with the clear intention of kissing her. “Do you?...” I whisper before my lips reach hers.

“I do,” she whispers back and pulls me to her with both hands for a blistering kiss, and my hands come up to hold her to me and I coax her to lay back on the bed.

 

///   ///

 

Today was hardly the day I imagined I would have before making love to her. If I am to be honest, though, considering who we are and what we do, a day like today is more likely than any other. Our days are either a lot like today or painfully dreary and domestic. Rarely a middle ground between them, rarely controllable.

There is, however, no need to measure this moment against any preconceived fantasy or expectation I may have had, because kissing her as she leans me into her bed surpasses any thought or memory I have of kissing, of being kissed, or held, or loved.

My left hand stays at the bend of her neck, pulling her closer, and my right travels down her front to her chest – her bare chest – I forgot she hadn’t a shirt on.

I cannot stop it as it drifts slowly downwards, until it rounds the swell of her breast and she whimpers into the kiss and breaks it.

She hoists herself up, using both arms to prop her, and she yields to my touch with eyes closed and lips parted. A damp curl falls down her cheek and she drags her bottom lip between her teeth.

She sets every one of my senses aflame: I taste her kiss on my tongue; my hand cradles her breast, thumb stroking soft skin; her white teeth tease reddened lips; short, soft, audible breaths escaping them; the air between us smells of freshly soaped skin.

She then falls back down, next to me, kissing me passionately, pressing the length of her frame against my side. Our hands tangle senselessly in hair, or journey to tease soft spots under jaws and behind ears, across chests and breasts and up again.

Before long, she drags her leg across my thighs and starts a barely discernible rhythm. My hand falls from her neck, where it had been busy applying soft pressure to her pulse point and hooks behind her knee to pull her more firmly to me.

Her breath catches in her throat and our kiss breaks again. She tears her eyes open, looking into mine. She has a wild, feral look about her, the look of a woman who succumbs to her needs with little or no inhibition left in her.

That look burns me to crisp cinder, and heaven help me, I _need_ her.

I pull her to crook of my neck where she begins to eagerly taste me, and I gasp with every graze of teeth and every sooth of tongue. I cannot wait for her any longer so I reach for her right hand, tucked precariously under the strap of my tank top and take it to where I need it. To where I need her.

She gasps at the feel of warm, damp cotton as I press her fingers to me and I gasp in return when she feels me – so lightly – through the fabric.

She is gone from me for a second – and I miss her touch already – only to reach under the hem of my shorts. Cool air rushes across heated skin and then her fingers follow.

She is hesitant at first, tips of fingers gliding slowly across, her breath shakes as she explores. But then she grows bolder all at once and she presses her fingers along me, teases every inch of me. She sets a pace fast enough for me to follow but slow enough to leave me wanting, to make me arch into her touch with every one of her movements.

She is committed to her pace. Her breath is almost as laboured as mine now, her forehead pressed to my temple. “Helena,” she breathes, “I…” she gasps, “I’m…” and then she shudders with a quiet moan. Her touch grows harder but retains its pace and I fall in shortly after her.

I grant us a short reprieve, then push her unto her back, straddle her thigh and she gasps at the contact. She sits up and we kiss again, hard and long and desperate. I urge her to lay back down and I place myself on top of her, feeling her body respond to mine as we kiss: her chest rising and falling, her abdomen expanding and contracting, her thighs twitching.

I temper the frenzy of the kiss until she relaxes, until she is less anxious in her desire. Only then I push past the slack waistband of her shorts. I’m greeted with an eager moan and a wanton grind and slick warmth that feels intoxicating. So intoxicating, I cannot contain my gasps of sheer pleasure every time my fingers traverse it. She unravels again in a matter of seconds, this time with my kiss on her lips.

I roll off of her, onto my back, where we lay next to each other catching our breath.

There is something in the quality of the light in the room and the roughness of the sheets that recalls a memory.

 

_The dim of the gaslight and my quickened pulse paint the walls of the room we are in with a soft, golden shimmer. I hum, contented, while Vincent continues to place errant kisses along my neck and shoulder, mumbling poetry verses of beauty and chivalry – uncharacteristic romance – to my skin, the tips of his moustache tickling me. “You truly are formidable, Helena,” he sighs after a minute or so and gets up to get dressed and return to his wife._

 

And then another.

 

_After she leaves my room I move into the other bed. It is cold. Its sheets are crisp and unyielding and surround me with the overbearing scent of modern day laundry. Such a stark contrast to the other bed – messy and crumpled and stained with our scents and our sweat and sins of our flesh. Such heady sins. Such beautiful, exhilarating sins that woke the whole of me – every muscle and tendon and bone, every dormant patch of skin, every slumbering sensation, every single nerve ending – for the first time since I was bronzed._

_Perhaps even longer. I can hardly recall the last lover who took such patience and care in touching me; who allowed me to take such pleasure in touching them in return._

_And all that in spite of so crassly misjudging her motives._

_I wonder if I am able to fall asleep in this bed._

_I wonder if I am able to fall asleep in the other._

_I wonder if I will have her like this again._

 

“Helena,” she pulls me back with a lingering kiss at the corner of my eye, almost as if she was quelling the fretful echoes of my memories. She sits up, pulls the covers on top of us and leans back down, propping her head by her hand, looking down at me. “I’m here,” she combs my hair with her fingers, places another kiss at the edge of my lips.

Her eyes are their lighter colour and her cheeks are still flushed. She wears her beauty differently now. It is as if she has let go of any and all boundaries that limit how she allows herself to be seen by others, and this is her _true_ form. This is her real, natural beauty.

If ever beauty there was.

I wonder if now, after everything she and I have gone through, after the past seven months, our sharing this bed seeds the expectation of evolving our relationship. I wonder how now, having most certainly moved from the ethereally palpable to the corporeally tangible, we can make it last.

Given I am currently assigned to her; given her work places her in danger on a daily basis; given her work places me in the occasional danger; given I am yet to fully form a life of my own in the 21st century; given hardly any good has ever come of my involvement with the Warehouse. I am not sure I can fend off the clutches of doubt.

I reach up for her rosy cheek and she leans into my palm, cradling my hand in hers, keeping it there. A gentle smile stretches my tightly pressed lips, a smile of awe and uncertainty. I feel her cheeks round as her smile broadens just before she shifts against my palm and kisses it.

She then lays down, settles next to me, around me.

“I’m always here for you, Helena” she whispers and kisses my pulse point.

I return a gentle kiss at the bridge of her nose, then reach to the bedside to switch off the lights.

In the darkness and quiet I hear the pattern of her breathing change as she falls asleep. Mine responds to hers as it slows, forcing my heart to do the same. Yet my mind is still racing. The feeling of her on my lips. The feeling of her at the tips of my fingers. Her few, simple words swirl in my mind, like the constant rush of water.

She is here for me. For _me_. “My Myka,” the words fall from my lips with equal parts devotion and disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a bit borrowed from the greats. one of Helena’s flashbacks in this chapter (Winter, P1 and 2) is a memory – but from another fic. Anyone fancy a guess which memory and which fic? (if you want an incentive, (if this is an incentive...), I’m open for requests/demands from the first two who get it right. :) )


	5. Spring (part one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly ten months in.  
> “ That night in the Super 8 was an end and a beginning. It was an end of the awkward, tense silences, the end of the long sideways glances. The end of deep breaths, of calming walks, of running two extra miles a day just to get it out of my system. The end of fending off desire and passion. The end of the treading on eggshells around each other.  
> I’m not sure what it’s the beginning of yet. ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter became obscenely long, so it - too - has been divided.

That night in the Super 8 was an end and a beginning. It was an end to awkward, tense silences, an end to long sideways glances. An end to deep breaths, calming walks and running two extra miles just to get it out of my system. An end to fending off desire and passion. An end to the treading on eggshells around each other.

I’m not sure what it’s the beginning of yet.

We haven’t had a ‘what does it make us’ conversation, and I’m a little worried of having it because I don’t even know what it makes us.

What I’m reading between the lines so far feels like we’re together. Feel like we’re *together* together, as Claud would say. But it doesn’t feel like the same kind of *together* I had with Sam or Pete.

Helena and I feel like a different kind of together.

For example, there’s never any drama with hellos and goodbyes. There’s no angst over the danger, or angst over not seeing each other, it's all pretty casual. It’s like the underlying assumption is that I’ll be back from _wherever_ with _whatever_ , and life will go on.

And so far it has.

We also don’t seem to have the urge to be all over each other all the time. I was the opposite with Sam. There always had to be a point of contact – a look, a touch – that confirmed that we are together. I had it with Pete too, but it didn't last as long.

Don’t get me wrong. Helena and I look at each other far more than we should do, to a point where it definitely constitutes leering, but it’s not this tetchy “I’m not meant to be looking at you, but I can’t help myself” thing. It’s more about appreciating each other’s presence.

A couple of weeks ago I was with her on a meeting day. I can’t really read or work because then I’m not watching her or the room, so I kind of _have to_ look in her general direction.

I spent four hours watching her. Really watching her.

Watching how her hair moves and slides and falls when she explains plan. Learning all her smiles – which are polite and which are honest, studying what she's likely to say if she wears either.

Getting to know her tells: why she reaches for her locket, why she clasps her hands in front of her, why she flicks her hair over her shoulder, why she touches the side of her neck, why she runs the tip of her right index finger above her eyebrow.

Watching her this way before felt wrong somehow, like it might start something I wouldn’t be able to finish. Watching her like this before definitely felt like I wasn’t meant to be looking but couldn’t help myself.

But now I am. Now I should. So I do.

And she knows it. And she doesn’t mind. I actually think she likes it. Sometimes she’ll play along and acknowledge me looking at her. And sometimes she won’t even notice (or pretend to not notice), and that’s okay. I don’t feel like she needs to notice me all the time.

I think it works the other way around too. I notice her watching me, and sometimes I’ll acknowledge her appreciation and sometimes I won’t. And it feels okay.

It’s the same with physical contact, too. We can just read in the library or have dinner or watch a movie or debate something obscure and pointless without being in each other’s personal space and without it hitching breaths or racing heart-rates.

When we first got back from Washington State I was very conscious of physical contact, of not being all over each other. I felt I had to keep everything toned down out of fear of the team’s dynamic changing again, out of respect for Pete. I didn’t want to flaunt the fact that Helena and I were involved.

But after a couple of weeks it became apparent that I didn’t need to try hard at all. It was easy being with her. It’s like all the pent up apprehension and nervousness has an outlet, so we can just _be_ in each other’s company and enjoy it for what it is.

And the outlet… Oh my god.

The minute a door closes behind us, _everything_ comes out. It could be the door to her house, or the door to my bedroom at the B &B, or the door to hotel room. Sometimes even a car door. The minute it clicks shut, someone’s lips are on some exposed patch of skin. Someone’s hands are at the other’s waist. Someone’s thigh rubs surreptitiously against one of the other’s.

It’s a little bit desperate, but I think that’s reasonable for a honeymoon period.

I have to say – I completely changed my mind about being desperate. There’s a notion that desperation is a negative emotion, that being desperate is a bad thing; and I get that. In most cases that’s true.

But with Helena… being desperate is… glorious. It makes everything feel _more_ : more crisp, more fun, softer, harsher, sharper, lighter. Just _more_. It makes sex absolutely amazing. I had great sex before, but this… this is something else. It’s like I understand the people who see tastes and smell words.

When we touch, she _challenges_ me in a way I never thought was possible. She is so demanding and so gentle at the same time, and she pushes me beyond what I thought my limits were every single time we touch.

 _God…_ the things she does to me… I can’t even think about what she does to me without blushing fiercely, without missing her lips and her hands and her body. Without getting embarrassingly distracted and inconveniently aroused.

It’s been seven weeks and four days since the Super 8 in Walla Walla, so what we have going now is pretty much a routine. And while – mostly – I’m okay with just enjoying whatever it is she and I are having, I’m occasionally thinking about the bigger picture.

I can’t help it, I think. It’s just the way I’m built. I’m made to plan and prepare and organise and calculate risks and consider scenarios. So occasionally I think about what will happen if that underlying assumption we have about my coming back and life carrying on is proven to be just an assumption.

Or, on a slightly less bleak note, what will happen if Mrs. Frederic, or a Regent or Artie come up and send me back to the Warehouse, or Helena somewhere else, or to another agent, or something.

Either of these could happen any day. Literally. _Any_ day.

On the occasions I think about these things, I always wind up feeling like every day could be our last.

When I tried to talk to Claudia about it, she thought it’s a great “carpe diem” thing and a way to live life to the fullest, but I don’t see it that way.

I find it emotionally draining. I don’t think my psyche deals with that sort of outlook very well.

My psyche hears “last day” and starts thinking about all the missed opportunities, and what could I do today to make up for all them, and that triggers what I could have done differently, and what I should do differently now, and how things could have played out differently, and it just. Does. Not. End.

Today was one of those days. I’m sitting at the Special Collection Library at Texas Tech, staring at my laptop that I haven’t even switched on. It – and me – are exactly where we’ve been for the past five hours.

Helena is working with Texas Tech University and needs to be out here a few days every week. So I fly out with her, and while she works, I do Warehouse research.

That’s the plan, anyway, except for today, because my mind is too busy processing the past and projecting conclusions to the future; because today could be my last day with Helena.

I’ve been asked to make a decision.

Mrs. Frederic turned up this morning right here, undetected, like she always does.

She asked how I was, how Helena was.

Then she told me that the Warehouse is struggling with me being away so much, that we need to recruit. She has her eye on a few people but needs to know whether she’s bringing in an agent or a handler.

The choice is mine.

On one hand, I volunteered to be Helena’s handler. So I want this, right? When I try to think about why I volunteered, it’s hard to pin point what it was, exactly: Did I volunteer because I thought I knew her well enough to be her handler? Because we used to make a good team? Because I wanted to prove to her that she _is_ this wonderful person even with her past? Because I wanted to be with her? Probably all of the above. And it seems to be going okay.

On the other hand… I love the Warehouse. I love what I do there. I love working with Pete and Claud and Steve and Artie. They’re my family.

It feels like Mrs. Frederic is asking me to choose between the two, when I want to have both.

I’m saying I want both, but I’m not sure what Helena and I are, because right now it feels a little bit like we’re having an affair. When every day could be our last – an affair is the best thing we could promise each other.

And I’m not sure I’m willing to leave the Warehouse for that.

 

///   ///

 

The journey back from Lubbock is quiet. It’s an awkward journey at the best of times, with an impossible changeover in Denver, in which we need to run across the terminal in order to catch the flight to Rapid City in time.

I’ve often asked Myka if she preferred we had a longer layover and arranged to meet her sister or parents, but she flatly declines every time. I’ve even clarified that I need not join her – I’m certain there are plenty of things for me to see and do in Denver while she catches up with her kin, yet the lady is not for turning, it would seem.

This journey is quieter than usual, if that’s possible. Myka appears to be reluctant to relax her professional stance throughout, she is on tenterhooks, strung more highly than usual.

As the plane taxis towards the gate in Denver, meaning we have approximately ten minutes before our weekly cross-terminal sprint is to begin, I simply have to ask. I lean into her gently and whisper, “Is anything the matter?”

“Hmmm?” she turns to me abruptly, as if I startled her.

“Is something wrong?” I ask again.

“Uhhh…” she stammers, closes her eyes and shakes her head, “Uhm, yeah…” she winces, “no,” she tilts her head to work out a creak in her neck, “I don’t know yet.”

She would have been adorable in such a state of indecisiveness, if it weren’t for the fact that my question continues to trouble her for the minutes after she answers.

“Can I help?”

She chortles uncomfortably, “Maybe,” she shrugs, “I’m not sure.”

I give her a suspecting look. I cannot tell whether she is truly perplexed by something, or whether her hesitant vagueness is an attempt at dismissing me. “Does it pertain to something I should be aware of?”

She sighs heavily and closes her eyes.

I have a feeling I know the words her lips and breath will soon shape.

“I need a bit of time, Helena,” she sighs with eyes closed.

It would appear my studies of her are paying off.

She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “I promise I’ll explain, just give me till Featherhead.”

I narrow my eyes, studying hers, her face, her body language.

“I promise,” she says again and leans over to grant me a courteous peck by my lips.

“Until Featherhead,” I reiterate her condition for the contract.

“Yes,” she says, and looks around her, distracted. The plane had stopped at the gate and we need to ready ourselves at the starting line.

“I really should run more,” I sigh, mock defeated. Myka always has to carry my luggage for me if we are to make it to the gate on time.

She angles a lopsided smile towards me. Our attempts at running together so far went wildly off track.

 

_I gasp her name, breathless, as she moves against me. The bark of the tree scrapes my back through the thin, synthetic fabric of the running top as we trade passionate kisses._

_She grunts and chokes a moan as her left hand reaches around my backside to pull my leg up and around her, dragging her fingernails across the leggings. She scorches a fiery path at the back of my thigh, until she reaches the hollow behind my knee where she swaps nails with fingertips and presses them in a random sequence into muscle and tendon, into this spot I had never known to elicit such potent arousal so quickly._

_I moan into the kiss as her right hand reaches between us and down, to where she surely feels just how keen I am – even through the my workout attire._

_She whimpers as she thrusts her pelvis forward, behind her hand and against me, against a tree off the path we had followed for a morning run; as she does so again, I lose myself in her warmth and taste and strength._

 

She has her hand at the small of my back and she pushes my gently forward, using subtle changes in pressure to the heel of her hand or her fingertips to direct me through the crowds of commuters. Every time we navigate through this maze I am reminded of the streets of London near Westminster or Bank in the early hours of the evening, as the hordes of bowler hat wearers took to the streets in their rush home.

This scene is very similar, but for the modes of transport used. Back then, those were public coaches and the first carriages of the Metropolitan and District Railways. These days - airplanes.

Perhaps if I bronze myself for another century, commercial space travel will have commenced. Another century after that and – who knows – perhaps teleportation. Perhaps time travel.

My heart thumps in my chest and my breath is cut short, the crowded terminal spins around me.

 

_The Bronze sector of Warehouse 12 had always fascinated me. I find myself standing in this room more and more, staring at humans-turned-metal, considering their wrongs. Considering their rights. Considering their histories. What was it that made them each do the things they had done, the things that ultimately cost them their freedom?_

_I consider them as I consider my own history. I consider the wrongs I had done in the name of justice. I consider the dangers I had both created and ignored in the search for it._

_A search I found to be never-ending and all too costly._

_I had hoped that justice will bring me peace. I had hoped it to be the resounding clash of cymbals; a medal of honour that weighs the lapel of one’s coat; a cathartic, vindicating realisation that washes clean the soul of those who seek it._

_But justice, I have come to realise, is as malleable as those who keep it._

_Justice is the slight movement of a blade of grass after a ladybird had flown from it. It is the quiet pitter-patter of mouse-feet on the cold stone floors of the kitchen at midnight. It is the split-moment of silence between lightning and thunder._

_It is minute as it is fragile, and one can miss it, all too readily, if one pays ill attention._

_I had been so distracted forcing justice into being, I had lost any sense of it._

_So here I am, about to step into the bronzing chamber, a brass cylinder of my own design, made to replace the reinforced wooden chambers of Warehouses of old; one designed to complement the years-old magicks of altering the form of a living being into an inanimate object._

_Here I am, about to begin my self-inflicted exile from the world, from humanity. Here I am, investing my very last fragment of hope in finding a different future – a better one – far beyond the life I have known here and now._

_The chill of the shackle around my wrist is dispelled by Caturanga’s warm look. “Are you certain, child?” he asks._

_I nod firmly. “The future is going to be a wondrous place.”_

 

Just as my knees are about to give way I feel Myka’s hand slip around my waist and she sweeps me up and sideways.

She sits me down on a bench, tucks our bags under her and crouches in front of me. She places her hands on the armrests, on either side of me, and seeks my eyes. “What’s going on?” she is concerned, truly concerned. I suppose I would be as well, if I were in her shoes.

As my breath steadies, I regain sensation in my extremities.

Myka pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear, softly touching the pads of her fingers to my forehead. “Helena,” she speaks softly, I can’t imagine anyone will hear her over the commotion of the busy terminal, but hers is the only voice I hear. “Helena, talk to me.”

I shake my head because I cannot speak, I cannot form words that would explain the feeling that drowned me a moment ago, the feeling of drawing my last breath in late 1899, as I was being bronzed.

Myka’s eyes look swiftly for other signs of injury. Her eyebrows are drawn together. She reaches for her bag and pulls out a pack of her wretched Twizzlers. She cannot possibly demand that I… “Eat,” she says, authoritatively.

“No, please,” I mumble, as though strength has gone not only from my limbs, but also from my lips.

“Don’t argue with me, Helena,” she is stern in her words as she places a red strand of liquorice in my hand. “Eat.”

My jaw is stiff as I bite into the rubbery sweet. My tongue is heavy in my mouth with failed attempts at softening the offending foodstuff.

Within a minute or so, as if by miracle, my breathing calms and I feel much more like myself. Simply focusing my efforts on the blasted confection allowed my lungs and heart to regain their rhythm of their own accord.

She rummages through my bag and pulls out a bottle of water. She unscrews the top and hands it to me.

I sip gingerly, swirl the cool liquid in my mouth to wash away the sticky remains and swallow. I close my eyes to take a breath and feel her hand close on my knee.

“Look at me,” and I do, “stay with me,” there is conviction in her eyes, in her words. Conviction I’ve never seen the likes of before.

We look into each other’s eyes, breathing in and out in unison, until my smile returns. “I’m all better,” I nod with gratitude, “Thank you.”

She says nothing, keeps her eyes in mine and continues to breathe at the same pace, until I join her.

“We will miss the connection,” I say after a few minutes.

“Don’t worry about the damn flight,” she answers with a light smile.

I quirk an eyebrow.

“There’ll be other flights, and you don’t look like you should boarding a plane right now.”

“Aren’t you meant to be in Elk Ridge in the morning?”

“Pete can go without me,” she relaxes her arms, but remains crouched in front of me.

“I’m fine,” I stand up, she stands with me. I wobble slightly as I straighten and she braces my arms with hers.

“Come on,” she ducks to pick up our bags and places her hand firmly at the small of back.

She walks me to the check in desk, and with the sweetest assertion manages to get us tickets on a flight the next day. We head out of the terminal and make our way to a chain hotel downtown.

She arranges our bags quickly in the room so I can make myself comfortable. Although my independent soul protests furiously, I cannot fault her for removing me from the airport and putting me in a calm, quiet and well ventilated space.

She was correct. Being locked in a pressurised, airborne cylinder would not have done me any favours. I needed the time to recuperate from the sensations my memory inflicted on me.

I lay back on the bed and close my eyes.

She places a sure kiss on my forehead, “I’m just going to call Pete, I’ll be back in two minutes,” she walks out with phone and key-card in hand.

Her voice travels, muffled, through the heavy door. I can only make out few of the words she speaks. Airport, collapse, better. I am guessing he then over-banters with her, because the tone of her voice changes and she speaks his name, angrily, several times over a handful of seconds. The next part I hear, comes loud and clear, “Stop. Pete. Not now.”

She comes in shortly after.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

“I take it Peter thinks our stopover is to serve another agenda altogether?” I speak softly through shallow breaths, behind closed eyes.

She huffs a short laugh, “Yeah,” she answers softly. I hear her rustling around the room and expect her weight to fall next to me, on the bed.

It does not.

Instead I hear her sigh from across the room. I recognise this silence. It is a silence pregnant with a question begging to be asked.

I open my eyes to cast a crack of a weary gaze on her.

She is looking down, tracing the shape of her phone with her thumbs and index fingers.

I close my eyes again. She will ask when she is ready. This wins me the time to consider my answer. The more I consider it, however, the more I realise that being honest with her might be simplest. She knows of bronzing. She knows of some of its side effects. Of all the people who witnessed me fall prey to the tricks my memory plays, she will be the most likely to understand.

My breathing slows to a drowsy pace. Perhaps she will not ask.

Then she sighs heavily again and I open my eyes. “Do you want to eat something?” is her question.

That was not the one I was expecting. I cannot help but smile. And then laugh. “Please,” I whisper, “I’d love to.”

She scans the room service menu distractedly. “They do grilled cheese.”

“That will do,” I look at her with a smile, and she returns a smile – an impish one.

Reassured, I close my eyes again.

I am not tired, but I am trying to minimise sensory input. Experience has taught me that the best way to regain equilibrium after my mind takes over my body is to allow all systems to even out at their own pace.

I am intrigued by the fact that Myka instinctively knows how to respond to it.

Meanwhile, she rings the hotel’s reception desk and orders us a shamefully comforting meal and some alcohol with which to wash it down. After that she fetches me some water and takes a shower. As she finishes changing into night clothes, there’s a knock on the door.

I open my eyes only when I feel her sit on the bed next to me: she faces me, cross-legged, wet haired and smiling. Just seeing her like this, relaxed and at ease, has a calming effect. I push myself up to sit, and she hands me my food and drink.

We eat and drink slowly. Although I know there is much she would like to know and much I should probably explain, I am grateful that she asks not a thing. When we are finished, she takes our plates and glasses and places them outside the door and I return to my previous position.

The mattress dips next to me again – judging by the shape and depth of the dip – she’s laying on her back as well.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” she says quietly, “and if you want me to stop, just tell me to stop.”

“Alright,” I answer with an obedient nod.

“I’m assuming it’s memories,” she states.

“You assume correctly.”

“Are they from before the bronze?” her voice changes shape and tone: I reckon she turned her head towards me. She also sounds softer. More empathetic.

“Not always,” my eyes remain closed, “at times the memories are very recent.”

 

_I am startled by cold – very cold – hands at my waist, under my shirt, creeping upwards, cradling my ribs as they flare with a gasp of shock, caused by the chill on my skin. Then, at complete and utter contrast to the icy hands, hot lips wrap around my pulse point and I gasp again. I melt into her embrace and reach to hold her in place, as she begins to nip and kiss and bite. “Myka,” I gasp a third time, “you will make me late again.”_

 

“At times, the memories are less than a day old,” my heart-rate quickens, the sensation of Myka’s greeting from this morning freshly felt from every tip to every toe.

 

_I hold her in my arms. She is so small, so helpless. So beautiful, so fragile. So perfect._

_I had never known a love like this towards another: overwhelming, shattering, all-consuming._

_I am both lucky to have it and unworthy of it._

_As I press my lips to her small, crinkled forehead and inhale a scent unique to her I vow to always –_ always _– love her this way._

 

“At times they are from farther reaches of my life,” I revel in the sweetness of Christina’s scent when she was a week or so old.

“What triggers them?”

“All manner of things,” I take a breath and let go of the feel of Christina, then reach for my locket. “A sensation, usually, a feeling. More often than not it is triggered by physical stimuli.”

“I knew you’d have a scientific explanation,” she scoffs.

“What explanation were you expecting?” I’m puzzled by her dismissal.

“I don’t know,” she is thoughtful, “maybe something a bit more personal.”

“A few weeks back, for example,” I sigh, “it was the colour with which the light had painted the walls of the room, the tightness of a sheet under my back and a certain – very specific – sensation of satisfaction.”

She falls silent.

“Was this personal enough?” I ask her, righteously.

I feel her shift next to me. “Was that at the Super 8?”

I hum a short, virtuous affirmation.

“What triggered today?” I feel her inch towards me.

“I am not sure,” I search for the moment my consciousness faltered. “A quality of the air, I think. The movement of people. There may have been a passing thought.”

“A passing thought?”

“The airport reminded me of London a hundred years ago, people rushing to coaches and rail carriages. I was contemplating half-seriously what evolved modes of transport will I encounter if I were to be bronzed for another century,” my lungs empty of air before I finish the sentence in its entirety. Its ending comes out laboured and wheezed.

She exhales loudly and remains silent for a while. “What was the memory?” her question comes out a whisper.

I take a deep breath and seek the strength to answer her. I find I need to take another. I fear that recalling the memory, telling it, might bring back its experience in the fullest extent.

“Do you want to stop?” I feel her hand on my arm.

“No,” I am grounded by her touch and take another breath in, then out. “It was the moment before I was bronzed.” My eyes tear open as I speak these words and I hold my breath, expecting that dreadful sensation to take hold, the sensation of the bronze taking hold of me.

But I do not feel it. Instead, I feel Myka’s lips on my shoulder, I feel her warm breath filtering through the fabric of my shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” the only one to blame for that sad ordeal is myself.

“I just…” she stammers, I feel her pursing her lips against my shoulder, “I want to understand.”

I turn to look at her and run a reassuring hand through her curls. “I shall endeavour to help you,” I answer with an attempt to remain stoic.

She pushes herself up until she is propped by a straight arm, looking down at me. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be all British,” she shrugs, “come out superior with some kind of hero/martyr complex.” Her eyes fill with compassion. “I know you hurt, Helena. I know sometimes things feel messed up, and I…” she takes a breath and looks down. “I’m here for you, okay?” she holds her head up straight again, “And this is part of being honest, remember?” she alludes to the lunchtime walk we had, nearly ten months ago. “This is us trusting each other.”

I’m in awe of the depth of trust she has in me. I'm in awe that I allow myself to trust her so.

A small smile blossoms on my lips at the sight of her. Sparking emeralds above pink lips that shape her passion into words, that passion of hers to do the right thing by those around her. In this case, it just so happens that I am the person by whom she does right.

Her cheeks bloom a slight blush. “You’re not smirking your way out of this one, Helena,” she pokes my arm.

“So how about –“ a kiss? I lean towards her, but she cuts into me.

“Nuh uh,” she leans back with a smile. “This is a serious conversation.”

I cock an eyebrow.

“Are you okay to continue the serious conversation?” she looks into my eyes and I am helpless against her honesty. Against her request for honesty.

“I am.”

“Today…” she starts, and stops. “Today felt different to other times I’ve seen you…” she searches for a word.

“Remember?” I try to help.

“Remember doesn’t feel right,” she pouts. “When it happens, you look like you’re thinking, but it’s completely within you. You think _in_.”

I see her point. ‘Remember’ is too benign a verb for my experience; and while thinking is an internal process, its outcomes are often externalised by an act of expression. And yet, when my memories take hold, I rarely (if at all) express any of their outcomes. She chose well to add a new term into our vernacular.

“So today felt different to other times I’ve seen you thinking in,” she completes her thought in its entirety.

“How so?”

“You never collapsed before.”

“The memories I recall are not just images,” I explain, “they are experiences that resonate through all my senses. They can be vary from anecdotal seconds to hours’ long adventures, in precise, intricate sensory detail.”

“You re-live your memories.”

I nod. “I cannot lie,” I smile at her and think back to how she bid me good morning earlier today, “some memories are very pleasant to re-live, some are quite the opposite,” the sensation from the airport tugs at my consciousness. “This afternoon was amongst the latter.”

“Is this a side effect of bronzing?”

“As a scientist I cannot answer that,” I look at her “I am yet to test this with other survivors of the bronze who’ve spent a similar length of time in it.”

“Could you do it before?”

“I believe that before the bronze I was much like yourself, darling. A person with the talent to burn to memory the finest details around them in mere seconds,” I touch my fingers to her brow. “I suppose it possible that the time I spent immobile enhanced that ability, to compensate for the lack of sensory stimulation.”

She hums and nods. After a few seconds she lays down on her back again, folds her arms under her head and looks up at the ceiling. I turn back to lay on my back, and close my eyes.

“You and I are a lot alike,” she says after what could have been an hour of silence.

“I concur,” I weigh whether to open this for further discussion as the serious conversation may not be over yet. I turn to look at her. “What calls for this particular observation?”

“I also think we are very different,” she finishes the thought she started moments ago, and is then silent for a long moment. “I was thinking about what I know of your life and what I know of you, and I was asking myself what I would have done if it were me.”

“And?”

“I can’t imagine I would’ve done things much differently to you,” she turns over, leans her head unto her folded arm. “It’s only circumstances that made us different.”

“How do you mean?”

“I grew up in a different society. The culture I grew up in was less restricting than yours,” she starts. “I had access to opportunities that you didn’t have…” she trails off, “Had I been born in 1866 England I think I would have ended up a lot more like you.”

As entertaining it is to consider Myka in Victorian England, the implied inference in her statement is serious. “What are you saying, Myka?”

“I’m saying I can’t judge you, Helena,” she looks at me again with that honesty of hers. With that trust. “I’m saying I won’t judge you.”

Something shifts in me at that moment. My heart feels it is it twice its size as it beats steadily in my chest. What did I ever do to deserve her? “I don’t know what to say,” I say quietly.

She beams comfort. “You don’t have to say anything,” she turns to lay on her back again.

 

Sleep evades most of the night. My mind busies itself unfolding what our lives may have been like had our timelines been reversed: had I been born in modern day England and her in 19th Century Colorado. How different our lives will have been, the expectations with which we will have been faced, the crossroads, the choices, the consequences.

I wonder whether I would have kept the child had I fallen pregnant in modern day Britain – I choice I did not have in late 1800s London. I wonder what Myka would have done.

I wonder if either of us would have crossed paths with the Warehouse.

Just as I begin to wonder how we _could_ have crossed paths with each other in that world, the one where Myka is a relic of the past and I a seed of the future, she rolls closer to me in her sleep and wraps her arm around my midriff. She pulls me to her, nuzzles the hair at the back of my neck, and tucks one of her feet between mine.

The next thought that crosses my mind is ‘how does she has this effect on me?’, but I do not get to extrapolate, because sleep takes hold within seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have got HG’s year of bronzing wrong. I feel like a bad Be/Weller for not knowing this, but when was HG bronzed? I tried to do the maths, and checked the show and the manual and the internet at large and was met with a lack of decisive clarity.  
> I’d love to know if you know, and apologies if I didn’t get it right.


	6. Spring (part two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Nearly ten months in)
> 
> A confusing conversation about time that ends in an agreement of sorts.

We make it to the flight to Rapid City in good time. Helena appears to have gone back to her usual self, even though I don’t think she slept much last night.

The closer we get to Rapid City, the tenser I become, because I promised Helena I’d share with her what was eating me up on the flight from Lubbock. I have until Featherhead, so I need to sort this out in my head.

It's hard because this isn't pure logic. My logic is messed up with emotions right now. So I focus on what I know, and try to keep what I feel out of it. For now, anyway.

Deep breath.

Question One: Do I stay Helena’s handler. Question Two: Do I give up the Warehouse. Question Three: Do I stay with Helena.

Based on what Mrs. Frederic said, if I answer ‘yes’ One, I also need to answer ‘yes’ to Two; and if I answer ‘no’ to Two, I also need to answer ‘no’ to One. Three is tricky, because it feels like there is no logic there, just emotion, and that just makes everything else complicated.

I can't keep them apart, though. I think all three questions impact each other. Maybe I can’t be Helena’s handler if we’re together, because mixing up emotions with personal security is bad practice. And maybe I can’t be an agent if we’re together, because of the constant danger.

But maybe there’s no conflict and everything’s okay. And maybe there’s a way I don’t need to leave the Warehouse to stay her handler.

And maybe we can’t come up with a way to be together without it feeling like we’re having an affair, so all of this is moot. And I am worried I’d lose _everything_.

My college roommate used to play a song that had a line in it, ‘maybe I ain’t used to maybes’, and it feels very suitable to suddenly remember it. I also recognise my mind is deflecting.

I know what I want, but I don’t know if the Powers that Be will let me to have my cake and eat it.

“You have just under an hour left,” Helena nudges me with a gentle smile as we head towards the parking lot.

“I know.” 

“I’ve noticed you have not made efforts to slow our progress down,” she walks next to me, keeps up with my pace.

“That would be cheating,” I lower my tone and look at her from above my sun glasses.

“I appreciate that,” she grins.

By the time we reach the car I think I’m ready to start. “Are you ready for another serious conversation?” I ask her once we’re both in and buckled and ready to go.

“I am. Are you?” she checks with me. “You have until we reach Featherhead city limits,” I’m not sure if she’s mocking me.

I clear my throat as I drive off the parking lot. “Mrs. Frederic asked me choose who she should to tag for the Warehouse: a new agent or a new handler.”

“Implying…” Helena asks me to clarify.

“Implying that it’s my choice whether I stay as your handler or go back to the Warehouse.”

“I thought you could do both,” she challenges.

“So did I,” I explain, “but I’ve been away too much lately.”

“I see,” she looks out the window, away from me, circling the pad of her thumb against the side of her index finger. She’s thinking. “Are you asking for my opinion?”

“Yes.”

“What is your opinion?” I hate it when she answers with a question.

I cough out an uncomfortable laugh. “I, uh…” I don’t know why, but it feels a little awkward admitting to it. “I want to stay your handler,” it comes out more decisive than it sounded in my mind, “if you want me to stay.”

She turns towards me. “Do you honestly need my affirmation?”

I shrug. “We change, Helena. Who we were when we met in London were different to the people we were when met in Boone. And who we are now are different to the people we were ten months ago.” Maybe (here come the insecurities) I’m not who you thought I would be. Maybe you’re not who I thought you would be. Maybe I don’t know how we make it work, when we have all this _stuff_ happening, like artefacts and clients and reliving memories.

“Fair point,” she nods firmly and looks forward. “I would rather like it if you remained my handler,” she adds, matter of fact.

“Okay,” I place a mental tick in the ‘Yes’ box next to Question One. The mental pen is hovering above the ‘Yes’ box of Question Two, given what Mrs. Frederic said.

“Does that mean you will no longer be an agent?” she turns to me again.

“I suppose it might do,” is the best I can answer.

“I am guessing you are not ready give up being an agent,” she fills the blanks for me.

“I don’t think I am,” I admit and look at her.

“Herein lies the problem,” her deduction at its best.

I nod and think I really need to say this, “There may be a bigger one,” I speak slowly and quietly.

“Is there?” she answers almost immediately.

I bite on the inside of my cheek to summon the courage to bring this up. “There is us.”

She’s quiet. I steal a glance in her direction and she is looking out the window again. I can’t see her expression, I have no indication of how she’s taking this. Eventually she turns to face me, with a noticeable flick of her hair over her shoulder, which usually means she’s ready to put her point across. “I believe this one may have slipped past me, Myka,” she notes, “I did not realise there was a problem.”

Right now, driving her home, I think it may have been a bad idea to bring this up while driving. It would have been better to talk to her when we’re in front of each other, when I can see her. When I’m not distracted. But it’s too late now. I sigh and explain, “I don’t think there’s a problem, necessarily. I just think that being together may have an impact, is all.”

She crosses her arms and gives me a questioning look, but says nothing.

I’m trying to articulate what went through my mind yesterday at the library and was so fucking coherent, I should have written it down. Now, I can’t find a word to start a sentence with. “From best practice perspective—“

She rolls her eyes.

“—there may be an issue with us being involved and me being in charge of your security.”

She exaggerates a sigh.

“From a Warehouse perspective—“

“Myka, please,” she dismisses, “do not patronise me.”

“—I think it’s a huge risk for you to be anywhere near any retrievals. What happened in Walla Walla was far more luck than good management,” I’m on a roll, I think, even though this roll feels a lot more like rambling like any kind of sense.

“Let me stop you right there,” she looks at me coldly, “and ask you for _your_ perspective.”

“My perspective?” I’m trying to buy myself time, because that’s the messiest perspective. The one that’s all emotion and zero logic and I know I’m not handling it very well.

“Yours,” she repeats and fixes her stare on me, I can feel her look.

“I…” I sigh and clench my teeth, because this is _painful_. “I worry what will happen if this doesn’t work out,” I spit it out because it gives me no time to think, “I worry what will happen if I stay with you and leave the Warehouse, and we can’t work it out.”

“I see,” it sounds like she accepts it.

"If I leave the Warehouse and I lose you I have nothing," I can’t stop clenching my teeth now and it feels like I’ve wrecked it already. She’s not saying anything and I don’t know what else to say so we’re not saying anything. For a long time.

“I can see how our past would leave you to assume that our future will not be simple,” she starts, so logical and calm it pisses me off. “I can also see how given both our histories with the Warehouse we are both somewhat remiss of sense of stability, to a point we might be craving it.”

I look at her nervously just before I turn off the freeway to get into Featherhead. Her house is less than ten minutes away, and right now after all that silence, these ten minutes could not go by quickly enough.

“At the same time,” she continues, “the past seven weeks seemed to have been working quite well, had they not?”

I don’t know if this is part of her pathos, or something she’s expecting me to answer.

“Darling, tell me,” she leans across the middle console and places her hand on my shoulder, “have the past seven weeks worked for you?”

I take a deep breath. “Sometimes they felt great and sometimes not so much,” I pause, “I mean…” I sigh again, “being with you, finally _being_ with you is…” I don’t have a word for it, “I can’t describe how great it is to be with you, without all the nerves and the apprehension,” I pause to breathe. “But it still feels like what we’re doing is wrong, like we’re not allowed to, like it’s not real.” And _this_ really feels like rambling because I don’t even know the point I’m trying to make.

She says nothing while we cross Featherhead towards her house.

Less than four minutes from her house the point I wanted to make hits me: “We aren’t allowed to be involved and it will never be real because at any second something could happen that would force us apart, no matter how well we think we’ve got it.”

We are both silent now. It’s weird when your mind is blank, when it runs out of thoughts. All of a sudden every noise the car makes – the indicator, the squeak of the tires against the road, the clicking of the gears – is so loud. But there is nothing in my mind – _nothing_ – other than this terrible notion that there will never be a Helena and me.

I turn down to her street and I get this itch, or a pang, like I’ve been stabbed or bitten. Like I don’t want this conversation to be over. I don’t want to just drop her off and drive away. I’ve done that before, more times than I could count, and I’m not going to do it again.

I park the car in front of her house and pull the hand break.

“I cannot promise you forever, Myka,” she whispers. “It isn’t mine to promise.”

“I know,” I take a breath, “I know I can’t promise you forever either.”

I bite my lips shut and look up at her. She looks sad, the same kind of sad she wore in Boone.

“And what we have now…” she starts and thinks, “is that not enough?”

Enough? I don’t know. I really don’t.

I can’t believe this is happening again. I can’t believe I’m doing it again.

It can be enough, I suppose. Maybe. “I just don’t know how to handle the casualness of it, I guess.”

She nods, and says nothing.

After couple of minutes I switch the engine off.

She shifts in her seat, then unbuckles her seatbelt. “Would you like to come inside?” she gets out of the car and goes to the trunk to take her suitcase.

I sit still for a moment. If I go in… I take a deep breath and sigh. If I go in, what’s likely to happen is what always happens when we walk through her front door. I’ll lock that door behind us and we’ll be all over each other for hours.

I’m not sure that’ll be conducive.

I think I want her to know… I need her to know.

I get out of the car and follow her up the path, “The casualness demeans it, Helena,” I say quietly to her as she unlocks her door. “It makes it feel cheap. Like a tryst, an affair,” she walks in.

She takes off her jacket, her back is turned to me, and it feels like this could be a goodbye.

I cross the threshold and hold on to the door, not sure what to do next.

“It makes it feel like you’re a conquest,” I close the door behind me.

 

///   ///

 

Her words echo within me like water drops in a silent cave. Not only does their sound cast rippling overtones that gradually become deafening, but they leave behind them a sediment of hard truth.

I want to answer her, but words escape me. Beyond words, concepts escape me. I do not know what to answer her. I do not know how.

I walk in and place my suitcase by the sideboard. I hear the latches of the lock fall heavily into place and I turn around, to look at her.

She stands in front of the door, her green eyes burning. There is something about the way she stands, like she wants to walk in, but doesn’t dare.

I dare not walk up to her either. I do not know what to do with her if what I offer her is not enough. I cannot offer more than I have for that _is_ all that I have.

She decides to walk in, she approaches me wearing the most serious expression I had ever seen her wear. When she reaches me she smiles briefly, she touches the tips of her fingers to my hair, gently placing strands behind my ear. “But you’re not a conquest, Helena” she says softly. My heart flutters with the notion her statement belays, or the fear of what it may lead to.

I shake my head. She is not a conquest, either.

The pads of her fingers trace a light line above the contour of my brow. “I don’t want a tryst,” she whispers and her touch dissolves me.

I do not wish for Myka to be a secret lover with whom I can only meet in haste, in private, for utilitarian sessions, pleasurable as they may be. I shake my head again.

Her fingers round my temple and the tips of them, slightly dry, scrape a feathery trail across my cheek, from my cheekbone to the corner of my lips. “This isn’t an affair,” she continues, her eyes follow her fingers and mine fall shut.

I shake my head a third time. I am determined _this_ is not a casual indulgence; _this_ will not be an intrigue, much like ones in my past, ones I had fallen into with little care, and fell out of with great abandon. I am adamant ––

My train of thought derails when she replaces her fingers with her lips and drags them slowly towards my ear. Every fragment of an inch her lips traverse across my skin my breath falls shorter and I lean into her.

“I love you, Helena,” she mouths by the shell of my ear and pulls away, leaving me bereft her proximity, her warmth.

I open my eyes to see her standing in front of me. Still so serious, her eyes are dark, her lips pressed tightly together, her breathing slow.

And I, usually so confident and self-assured, still seem incapable of answering.

Seconds tick by and she grows more nervous, she begins biting on the inside of her lower lip. I watch her from my stinted inability to respond, and it suddenly occurs to me that she may not know what I feel for her.

How could she not? I thought it so blindingly obvious. Then I remember our protracted, precarious dance along the holy hilltop, and realise that perhaps, just perhaps, she may not.

Does she not know? Does she not know how much I love her?

I reach to cradle her cheek in my palm and caress the dip under her full, bottom lip, to ease her nervousness.

“I have loved you for the longest time, Myka” I speak without thinking, say these words so easily, words of a promise I kept for so long, yet a promise I know cannot vow to keep forever. “For the longest time, and still,” my thumb travels closer and closer to her bottom lip until it brushes it.

I pull her to me, and she falls in for a kiss, slow and gentle and reverent. Her fingers find me again: those of the left hand circle gently to the hollow under my ear and those of the right sweep across to the back of my neck.

Although this may look similar to any other time she and I walked in through my door and locked it behind us, this feels distinctly different to me. She feels distinctly different to me.

There is less urgency, but no less passion. There is less despair, but no less desire. There has always been love. Always. But now we’ve confessed it, agreed it, we are more willing. More patient.

And so this kiss in the doorway lasts longer than any other.

 

Evening falls by the time we rest against each other in bed. This afternoon was rather different from any other we had spent together in the past seven weeks. This time, Myka insisted we did not make love. Surprised and – quite honestly – slightly disappointed, I allowed her ascertain our pace, which she had decided to split between us – equally.

Her rules were simple: fifteen minutes each, then swap; without allowing touch that would be explicitly construed as sex.

I had never spent so much time undressing a lover as I had Myka today – not even in the days of laced corsets and cage crinolines and layered petticoats. I can honestly attest to the fact that I had never taken so much pleasure in taking my time, either.

Equally, no lover has ever studied me the way that she has today. No lover has ever placed a touch upon me that reached in from my skin, that reached deeper and beyond than the mere physicality of contact.

The time we took was to learn each other. She and I both share a curiosity, a need to understand how we each work, how we connect, and today we let loose that curiously between us.

The time we took was to understand those connections, those complex chain reactions that would link a nip at the arch of a foot with scratch at the expanse of an abdomen and a gasp or a chuckle or a lip bit into a little too harshly.

This time we took was quite possibly just as exhilarating as any other time we made love, if not more.

We are now propped against pillows stacked by the headboard, Myka’s head is settled against mine, our fingers interlaced atop the sheets that cover us, the only parts of us that remain restless.

Her breathing suggests she is mulling something over, considering and re-considering it.

I prepare to speak up. I owe her as much, given my dazzling failure to communicate earlier. “What if…” I begin and her head nudges me slightly, “what if we agreed that there was no forever?”

“I don’t understand,” she mutters and her fingers press harder into mine.

“We agreed we cannot promise forever to the other,” I try to word the sentiment differently.

“Yeah,” she sounds skeptical and her fingers stop altogether.

“We both know that the future is a beast which cannot be tamed and it will do unto us as it pleases.”

“Where are you going with this?” she lifts her head and looks into my eyes. “It’s not very comforting.”

“Shhhh,” I press my thumb to her lips with a shy smile. “What if every day we spend together is a surprise. A gift. A boon.”

“This is a very new-agey to be coming from someone old-agey,” she kisses my thumb after replacing her skepticism with sarcasm.

“I realise this does not match the partnership paradigm both of us were raised to aspire to,” I find the fact that little had changed in this respect in over a century interesting. “I realise that the new paradigm I’m suggesting does not provide the illusion of stability,” I trace the shape of her lips with the pad of my thumb. “Yet, we are in agreement that the stability in the older paradigm is just that: an illusion.”

She sighs.

“I can promise you my trust,” I smile and she smiles in return. “I can promise you honesty,” her smile broadens, she acknowledges my reference to that walk we took in the summer that feels like so long ago. “I can promise to have my faith in you, every day we spend at each other’s side.”

I watch her as she watches me. She is studying my lips, brings her fingers to them. Her pupils contract and expand as she changes the shape of her touch, her tongue passes over her teeth to touch her own lips gently.

I can promise her all these today, but I cannot promise tomorrow. Tomorrow is out of my reach. Tomorrow isn’t mine to promise until it becomes today.

“It’s funny, you know,” she muses as she continues to tickle my lips, “that we’re talking about the here and now as our future,” she breathes. “But the here and the now can never be the future. The here and now are _now_ ,” her green eyes glaze as her mind wanders. “The here and the now are more past than future,” she sighs, “now becomes past so quickly.”

I draw my lower lip in to wet it as it becomes sensitive to her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she shakes herself out of her trance. “I don’t know what I was saying there,” she laughs uncomfortably, and settles back down, her head at the crook of my neck.

“You,” I run my fingers through soft curls, “have quite eloquently articulated the nonsensical complexity of the linear perception of time,” I coax her to me and place a soft kiss on her lips.

She breathes a chuckle onto my lips. “I don’t think it helped,” she whispers.

“Do you not?” I challenge her before capturing her lips fully with mine.

She pushes herself up and over, until she hovers over me. “So we don’t think about the future?”

I contemplate her simplified, sweeping generalisation. “I suppose we do not, no.”

She shifts above me as she thinks. “We make _no_ plans?”

I look into her eyes and shake my head.

“We can only promise the here and now,” her eyes narrow.

I smile and let my fingers climb up her arms, to reach her shoulders.

“I get one-day-at-a-time, believe me,” she nods emphatically, her eyes sparkle and her curls frame her now easy smile. “I just think I need to get used to it in this context,” she dips to kiss me and lowers her body atop mine.

I sigh into the kiss and pull her closer, ever closer. My left hand finds the dip in her lower back and my right traverses past her backside, and she starts laughing.

“What is it?” I ask from the foggy edge of arousal.

“I was going to ask you for time,” she smiles mischievously as she drags her knee up between mine.

“I will give you all that I have,” I pull her into another kiss that drags into another. And another. And another.

 

///   ///

 

We barely sleep.

In the morning, we kiss goodbye for almost an hour and I leave for the Warehouse.

So much for no drama when saying goodbye.

I spend the hour and twenty I have in the car thinking about the past 48 hours. I spend quite a bit of time thinking about a future that isn’t a future. I can sort of wrap my head around it, I think, but I'm not sure I really get it.

I think about what I should answer Mrs. Frederic.

When I park up in front of the Warehouse, I sit in the car a bit longer and make a decision. I want to stay Helena’s handler, but I don’t want to stop being an agent, either. This is partly me hedging my bets, but also not letting go of something I really enjoy doing.

Besides, over the time I’ve spent at the Warehouse, with the Regents, I know – probably better than anyone – that they can be persuaded.

When I get into Artie’s office, Claudia’s sitting there, straight faced, with two clipboards and two tablets.

“Hey!” I didn’t expect to see her there, “I thought you were in Elk Ridge.”

“Yeah,” she drawls, “I sent Artie.”

I raise both eyebrows with shock and awe. “You _sent_ Artie? Since when do you send Artie?” I ask with a great, big grin, because everything about that sentence is funny.

“Since you and I needed to have a girl talk,” she doesn’t sound or look or feel like the usual, playful Claud who asks me to spill the beans every chance she gets. This is a different Claud altogether, and I feel like I’m being called into the principal’s office. Mrs. Frederic-esque.

She gets up and walks over, hands me a clipboard and a tablet, “Come on,” she heads back into the Warehouse, and she’s walking fast – very fast – faster than how I usually walk, and I need to pick up the pace to catch up to her.

“What’s going on, Claud?” I follow her.

“We’re going to Arc Winslow 400,” she throws back.

“We’re doing inventory?”

“Yup!” she punctuates the P from about 15 feet ahead of me.

“Wait up,” I need to speed up again.

We jog for a few minutes before she slows down to _her_ normal pace.

“What the hell is going on, Claud?”

She turns to the middle shelf in the stack and scans the QR code next to Frank Willis’ ID badge. “Pete knows.”

“Pete knows what?”

She gives me a grim look.

“What?” I honestly don’t know what she’s talking about. “He already knows about...” I insinuate to Helena and me. I don’t know why I can’t say it.

“For _Pete’s_ sake,” she growls, and emphasises ‘Pete’, because she’s worried about _his_ sake, “Pete knows something else is up, because he was up this morning and looked like _crap_.”

“It wasn’t something he ate?” I have to check.

“Myka,” Claudia is not amused, only I’m serious.

“Or something he touched?” she knows him just as well as I do, and with Pete, when we hear hoof beats, we think artefact.

“No. He looked the kind of crap he looked three months before you broke up, and the kind of crap he looked just after, and the kind of crap he looked when you volunteered to handle Helena.”

I raise a questioning eyebrow at her now. That’s a turn of phrase…

“What did you do?” she whispers accusingly.

“Claud,” I sigh and walk over her. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she and I exchange looks for a long moment.

She scans Elisha Gray’s pencil sharpener, and I go to the next shelf over. I start with Charles Darwin walking stick. We’re quiet for the whole of 30 seconds.

“Pete thinks you two got married in Colorado.”

I freeze, then look at her. Where did _that_ come from? “What?!”

She looks at me, into my eyes, tries to do the thing Steve does.

“Pete and his damn vibes,” I mutter and go back to inventory: Rosalind Franklin’s Newnham College scarf, Mary Anning’s pickaxe, Amy Johnson’s compass.

She still looks, scans me, my body language. I know what she’s doing because I taught her how to do it.

“We didn’t get married,” I huff a short laugh, “kind of the opposite, actually,” I think out loud, because what Helena suggested, one day at a time, is the opposite of as life-long promise.

“What do you mean, ‘kind of the opposite’?” she is puzzled for a moment, but then steps back with a dramatic gasp and clutches her tablet to her chest. “You didn’t…” she whispers.

I lost track of what her assumptions are. “Didn’t what?”

“You didn’t…” she says with a cringe, “break up?”

I shake my head, then put the clipboard and tablet on the shelf before turning to face her.

“Girl talk, right?” I confirm with her, and she nods and downs her tools as well. “We had the ‘what does it make us’ talk yesterday.”

“Oh,” she exhales slowly, “ _The_ _Talk_ ,” she nods for a few more seconds. “And?”

“And basically…” no matter which way I try to put it into words, it sounds weird. “We agreed that the present is our future.”

“Say what now, Doc Brown?” Claudia looks confused.

“There was something about the linear perception of time…” I mumble, “The short of it is we’re taking it one day at a time.”

“You’ve been taking it one day at a time since last year,” she knows all about how I managed myself with Helena when she first got back.

“Yeah, but that was about arrangements, you know, not…” I’m not sure how to finish. Sex? Love? Commitment? Life plans?

She nods knowingly and picks her tablet up. She scans Elisha Kane’s boots with a subtle nod, then Joshua Chamberlin’s bayonet. Then George Johnson’s last legal pad and Frank Wilson’s fedora. She’s still thinking about it.

“That’s weird, right?” I ask her and scan Elizabeth Jennings Graham’s handbag and Sybil Ludington’s riding gloves.

“It’s unconventional,” she shrugs. “But then you’re dating _HG Wells_ , Myka,” she’s about to state the obvious. “Conventional never came to the party, you know?” she thinks as she speaks. “Conventional wasn’t even invited.”

I smile. She’s right.

“So why was Pete vibing?” she asks and we move down the stack.

“I don’t know,” I think about all the different things that could have made him feel something, and the only thing that comes to mind is the sense of peace I felt this morning. I’ve never felt that with Helena before. I’m not sure I’ve felt that with anyone before. “What’s he like when we’re away?”

“You know… He’s keeps busy. We keep him busy. Some days he’s a little bit mopey…” she trails off, then falls silent for a minute. “He deals,” she concludes, “in his own way, he does the dealing.”

I feel for him. For Pete. I feel responsible for where we wound up, even though I know it’s not just my fault – it definitely took the two of us. But I never meant for this to happen.

When we came here, to the Warehouse, it never occurred to me that we’d get involved. God, he was so annoying and childish. But after five years, we _happened_ , and it felt right.

I have so much love for him. He has such a big heart and he makes me feel like I have one too. When we started seeing each other we just gave each other so much and meant so much to each other. Neither of us thought they could want anything else.

But it just… faded. That feeling faded, and after a while we just settled down.

Maybe it was chasing artefacts. All the energy in our relationship was channeled into finding leads and fighting bad guys and keeping each other alive, that by the end of it, at home, our being together wound up this boring, sleepy existence.

I don't know.

It's not like I'm this super adventurous person in romance or in bed, but after a while of just _existing_ , it felt like we were broken, and that broke me.

It broke me that I couldn't excite him, and it broke me that he couldn't excite me, and then it felt like we were just best friends who were sharing a bed.

By this point, we both knew we were on the brink of making each other miserable.

That's the first time Pete looked awful. I always thought it was because his vibes were picking up on my misery as well as his own. But I don't know for sure. I don't vibe the way he does.

Then it took us a while to actually decide to stop trying to change things, to stop expecting things to change and stop sharing a bed and stop being a couple.

And even though it's been a year and a half now, nearly two years, actually, I think we’re still struggling to be best friends, because it’s finding a way to backtrack from best friends who are sleeping together.

And now… Now I’m with Helena which has a whole load of other baggage attached to it, because – unlike him and me and the lackluster life we settled into – Helena and I are _alive_.

Sometimes I think it must be so hard for him because of how he feels vibes, because I think he can feel how alive I feel, and I'm guessing he’s probably feeling… not so much.

I realise now that going out in the field with him is the one place where we feel normal and everything between us is like it always was. That’s a big part of why I can’t give up being an agent. I love him too much to lose him.

I sigh heavily and stop – I've reached the end of Arc Winslow 400.

Claudia’s behind me, running a report on the terminal at the end of the row.

“Not so much of a girl talk, huh?” I say through a coy smile.

“You were obviously doing some serious ponderage there, but if you're finished, maybe I can ask you something else?”

“Sure,” I smile uncomfortably, because I don’t know what other stream of thought she’ll tap into next.

“What are you going to tell Mrs. Frederic?”

I lean against the stack and watch her finish up. She never stops amazing me, this one. She obviously knows and processes a lot more than she lets in on, or is even aware of. I wonder if, when I’m inside the Warehouse, the Warehouse reads me, which means she reads me by proxy. “I was going to ask to talk to the Regents directly.”

She looks at me and her smile broadens, like she knows. “You wanna stay a handler?”

I smile and nod.

“But not ready to stop being a field agent?”

I shake my head.

She eyes me with a knowing smile, “If anyone can convince Regents – it’s you.”

“Can I ask you a question now?” I cross my arms.

“Absolutely.”

“Have you applied to the Secret Service yet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This one could have done with a beta, me thinks. I'm not sure it made any sense... honest feedback will be greatly appreciated...)


	7. The following Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nearly two years in.

It is nearly two years since I returned to South Dakota.

It turns out Myka’s true powers are the powers of influence and persuasion: she manages to convince every single Regent that she needn’t give up being an agent to remain my handler. During the year that follows she performs both duties while retaining her retrieval rate.

Granted, she spends less time in the field because of her commitment to me as my handler, so Irene recruits two new field agents.

Claudia’s Secret Service application is declined, much to the team’s exhaustive work behind the scenes and resounding dismay. Yet such is the world of government agencies, that a candidate declined by one is eagerly snapped up by another.

The NSA wastes no time in enlisting Claudia to their midst, and Irene, on her part, wastes no time in whisking her back to the Warehouse as soon as possible.

By the time Claudia is back at the Bed and Breakfast from Washington DC, an apprentice joins the ranks to help her with her work and for the first time, I am told, since 1963, the Bed and Breakfast is at capacity.

It is the most logical, and perhaps most obvious solution that Myka seeks accommodation in Univille given she spends least time at the Warehouse, and come April she is the first active Warehouse agent in Warehouse 13’s history to live outside the Warehouse’s campus.

We move her to a flat nestled between Main Street and the riverside park. It is rather a small flat, I think as I walk in with the team at large, each of us carrying something of hers.

It isn’t large at all. A single space that joins kitchen, dining room and lounge, two bedrooms and a bathroom at its back.

Not lavish, yet functional. It so perfectly fits Myka to choose this place.

 

///   ///

 

I’m taking a break from putting furniture together and Pete comes up to see me in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we kicked you out,” he sighs.

I look up at him and smile. “You didn’t kick me out,” I pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Kinda feels like we did,” he has his hands tucked in his front pockets and he’s swinging backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, like a boy. “It’ll be weird over there without you.”

He’s getting sentimental on me which means I’m going to get sentimental too. We’ve been living together for seven years. Nearly eight. It may be weird there without me, but it’ll be weirder _here_ without _anyone_.

I’m trying to find a silver lining: when I look at the detail of it, things aren’t going to change too much for Pete and me. “I’m still going to be out with you on at least one mission a week,” I hand him a can of orange soda.

“I know,” he cracks it open.

“And when we’re out we’re not in the B&B anyway, so that’s not going to feel any different,” I’m pointing out the logic of it.

“I know,” he sighs and takes a sip.

“We’ve still got Pie Day at the Diner every third Sunday,” I nudge him with my shoulder.

He mock sighs with a nod.

“I’m still going to be over for movie night.”

“You better…” he spins the can in his hands for a minute, thinking. “You know what I’m not going to miss?”

“What?” I’m willing to enable him.

“I’m not going to miss you going out on your runs at ungodly o’clock, and then wake the whole house up with a shower and hour later.”

I deserve that.

“I’m not going to miss your green food fascism,” he tries to keep a straight face.

I deserve that too.

“I’m not going to miss your whining when it’s your turn to use the wired controller when we play Halo,” the straight face is gone and he has his silly smile on.

 _This_ is uncalled for. I don’t whine. We have a rota for who gets the temperamental controller, but Pete only sticks to it when he feels like it. And I know he’s just pushing my buttons. “Don’t you have a date to get ready for?” I punch his arm with a smile.

His eyes light up. “I was going to ask you, actually,” he straightens in front of me and starts messing his hair up. “Bed hair?” then flattens it down and parts it on the left, “or schoolboy?”

I narrow my eyes and consider the options, “What is it? Fourth date?”

“Lucky number four,” he nods slowly and enunciates.

“Bed hair.”

“Thanks, Mykes," he puts his can down, "see you later,” high fives me and heads towards the door.

“Wait, Pete,” I call out and walk after him.

“What?” he turns around in time for me to reach him.

“I’m going to miss you,” I catch up to him and give him a tight hug.

 

After all the Ikea furniture has been put together and all my stuff’s been put away and everyone had something to eat on a disposable cardboard plate, it’s just Helena and me in my apartment, sitting by the kitchen table.

It’s been ages since I had my own apartment. “This feels weird,” I look around me. It’s been ages since I had to get used to a new living space.

She smiles a mysterious smile, gets up and reaches out to me.

There is something disarming about how she teases me, and I smile back as I take her hand.

She pulls me over to the sofa, and into a soft kiss. It’s not the kind of kiss that is meant to lead anywhere in particular, and it’s just the kind of calm I need after moving house.

I reach to wrap my arm around her waist, but before I manage to hold her, she pushes me and I fall backwards onto the sofa. Okay… Maybe I got it wrong and there's more to right now than calm.

I close my eyes and think about the possibilities, and it takes a second for me to miss her, to want her and her hands and her body… I wet my lips in anticipation, waiting for her to climb on top of me, straddle me.

But she doesn’t.

I open my eyes and she’s just coming out from the bedroom, holding both her hands behind her back and wearing the same, teasing smile.

“I brought you a gift,” she smiles, “to help ease your first night here.”

“How thoughtful,” I answer with a smirk, sit up and straighten my back. She walks right up to me. I place my chin on her belly and look up into her eyes, and I feel so calm for a moment.

“One for you, and one for me,” her voice drips, low and seductive, and the calm is gone, and instead there is a spark and the smallest fire in my gut. “You get to choose,” she whispers and leans in to touch her lips to mine and somehow, with that kiss, she calms me again.

I’m not really sure what she’s going to pull out. It could be anything. Really.

In one smooth move she brings both hands forward, and holds two books up: The Time Traveller’s Wife (which I already read) and The Humans (which I heard about but haven’t had the chance yet).

I can’t help but smile at the choices: a painful fated/doomed romance involving time travel and an observation of humanity.

Both are bittersweet and so very Helena.

I point at The Humans and she hands it to me. I hold it with one hand, and pull her down with the other, she falls next to me with a huff.

“Thank you,” I place a kiss on her cheek. “I love it.” I place another under her jaw and another along her neck.

She hums in contentment.

“Are you staying over?” I ask and stretch my legs on the sofa, leaning back into her.

 

///   ///

 

She leans against me, her back wedged against my side, reading her book. My arm is slung over her shoulder, across her chest and down, my palm resting on where her stomach borders her waist, feeling her move with every breath she takes.

The refrigerator's persistent purr had paused and I can hear her breathing now.

I press the tip of my nose to the crown of her head and breathe her in, a scent that has come be comforting, exhilarating and enticing all at once.

She emits a low hum, acknowledging my appreciation of her.

It is nearly two years since I returned to South Dakota, and I could not have wished to have wound up anywhere else but here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have – hopefully – plugged some gaps.  
> Thank you so much for engaging and commenting and liking. I really enjoyed the ride – I hope you did too.

**Author's Note:**

> I can never thank you enough for reading. :)
> 
> This is still a learning curve (and always feels like a work in progress), so I'd love to hear from you - the good, the bad and the ugly.  
> (Also, any notes about oddities, inconsistencies, typos - always always welcome.)
> 
> Thanks again.


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